


The Drama Teacher

by QueanBysshe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animal Transformation, Gen, Oviposition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-07-24 14:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16177166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueanBysshe/pseuds/QueanBysshe
Summary: A stray letter to Remus finally reaches a recipient. Dumbledore, being a whimsical person, decides to hire him--but not as DADA professor.Hogwarts has gone far too long without any of the Arts. And Professor Sebastian Rose has a few ideas about that. When the Triwizard Incident happens, however, he finds himself standing up for a fourteen-year-old child suddenly in harm's way, and taking to the rules of the Tournament to see what can be done, with the dogged tenacity and refusal to comply that Americans are so good at....I wrote this, like the Disney AU, as a way to cope with some things and get back to my fandom roots.





	1. Sebastian Rose

Dumbledore received the letter from America and immediately acted on the reply, though it had been meant for Lupin, back when Dumbledore had been trying to find him. While he'd already hired Alastor Moody, the man that had answered the stray letter to Remus was too interesting to ignore. Sebastian Rose hadn't said he was desperate, but the casual way that he referred to his situation was upsetting to someone like Dumbledore, who had never known such things as hunger or the kind of low background hum of danger that poverty brings with it.

Sebastian insisted on muggle shipping for his belongings, and Dumbledore, always fascinated by technology, and having nobody to talk to about it, had said belongings hand-delivered by aeroplane. Sebastian himself, however, wrote and said he would love to not have to take muggle transportation, and so Flooed over ahead of his belongings. Seeing the state of him when he arrived, and having lunch with him that was full of lively conversation, Dumbledore was charmed and insisted on, as Sebastian put it, ‘playing dress-up dolly’ with Sebastian, introducing the younger Rose to Dumbledore’s hairdresser, manicurist, and the wizarding high street. Sebastian had never owned a wand, and insisted on a staff instead, which was very old-fashioned but also impressive. The way he handled one (six feet, redwood and sea-glass) was, frankly, _sexy_. 

Oh dear.

Well, Dumbledore thought to himself, there were worse things than having a crush on a beautiful, vibrant American boy. And once he was through styling himself, Sebastian was  _very_ beautiful.... 

-

Sebastian darted inside a cosmetics apothecary as soon as he saw inside the window, and not only had his face made up, but sat and diligently took notes and had the wizard at the counter show him over and over how to do it until he could recite the steps,  and do it himself. Dumbledore simply observed, quietly delighted at the fact that, with a little care, the bitterness and nerves melted away to reveal a sparkling socialite as charmingly eccentric and intelligent as Dumbledore always liked his friends to be. 

At the salon, Sebastian knew exactly what he wanted and, after making sure that Dumbledore meant ‘anything’ when he said it, went up to the receptionist.

‘Do you do eyebrows here?’

‘Yes, dear. We do everything here,’ the receptionist said patiently.

‘Then I’d like my eyebrows done, and I’d like a full head of hair colour—an eight-colour gradient—and a full set of acrylic nails, and a pedicure with lacquer—epsom salts only in the bath, please, and I have my own lotion.’

‘Allergies?’

‘Yeah, some. Not to hair products though, just exfoliants and like that.’

‘Alright, well, I as _sume_ , from the gentleman making eyes at you, that you’re here to see Qamar. Come on back, he’s just doing the books.’ The receptionist opened the decorative gate blocking off the front of the shop from the back, and Sebastian stepped through, following him. He was very pretty, and walked with a sway to his hips that made Sebastian feel even more comfortable with his own hips, which were rather wide.

‘What’s Qamar like?’ Sebastian asked the salon generally. The room behind the reception area was open, with two rows of chairs in brass and well-worn black leather, mirror-shiny floors of smooth parquet, and lots of witches and wizards of varying ages and genders, chatting as they got their hair or nails done (it seemed to not separate the salon into sections, which Sebastian found interesting).

‘A top!’ called out a young wizard flirtatiously. There was a lot of giggling and shushing.

‘Stop it, Yanaton, you naughty creature,’ said a silver fox currently getting his long nails buffed to a shine.

‘He’s the _owner_ , darling,’ said a beautiful fat witch setting another’s head of long violet hair into curlers.

The receptionist gestured to a chair by an office door with a frosted glass window, and then tapped on the door. ‘Yoohoo, Qamar, darling, Albus is here with his new boy toy!’

‘He is not my new boy toy,’ Dumbledore said mildly. There were many noises of sarcastic agreement, outright argument, or firm disbelief. Dumbledore glanced at Sebastian to see how he was taking it; Sebastian was pressing his lips together and not looking at anyone, hiding a smile of pleasure if his blown-wide pupils were anything to go by. Well, perhaps... perhaps there was a possibility this could be something. How very pleasant, to have a young person not object to the idea of a man Dumbledore’s age having a sexuality.

The office door opened, and Sebastian’s eyes snapped up to the tall,  gorgeous, brown-skinned man wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit, minus the jacket, with a shirt of verdegris that had a purple pattern of vines on it. His face was made-up and glittered, and his hair was in very fine,  very long dreadlocks that were decorated with all manner of golden cuffs, beads, and pulled back with what appeared to be golden wire. He looked Sebastian up and down and gasped, walking around him.

‘A virgin!’ he said, pleased, as he gently touched Sebastian’s just-past-shoulder-length curls, and sighed adoringly. Sebastian felt tingles start up and melted into the caress happily. ‘Oh, _precious_ , and they’re _natural_ too. You’re Italian, aren’t you? Bello, bello ragazzo—what do you want, darling? Oh please don’t say straightening, I won’t do it you know.’

Sebastian made a face in the mirror. ‘Ew, no. I tried that once, it was awful. No, I want colour.  Purple at the roots, fading through blue,  cyan,  green, yellow, orange,  red,  and then  pink at the tips. Really vivid and bright, but not fluorescent.’ 

‘Oh I _do_ like a boy that knows what he’s _about_.’

‘I want to be very clear about what I am,’ Sebastian said, smiling happily. Qamar’s long, beautiful hands were still caressing his hair, playing gently with the ringlets. It was bliss.

‘And what is that, dear? Other than colourful.’

Sebastian was thrown for a loop. ‘Wh—gay, of course. The rainbow flag, you know? The pride flag?’

‘Oh! Oh of _course_ , darling, you’re _American_.’

Sebastian felt the beginnings of embarrassment starting to knot his stomach. ‘Did I just... um, make a social faux-pas?’

‘Oh no, no, darling, no.’ Qamar smiled at him in the mirror, hands on his shoulders. ‘But you’re _safe_ now, you know. Didn’t you tell him, Albus? You horrid man, here he is thinking he has to worry about his _safety_!’

‘I _am_ human, Qamar; would you believe it never occurred to me, due to my never having to worry about it?’

‘That’s really nice, I don’t mind,’ Sebastian interjected, still blushing. ‘I know now. I still want a rainbow.’

‘Are you sure about the gradient, dear? We could do it horizontally, you know.’ Qamar lifted the hair, carded through it and hummed thoughtfully. ‘It would look fabulous braided, that way....’

‘Hmm,’ Sebastian thought, trying to picture it in his mind, closing his eyes. Every ringlet a different colour... he grinned. ‘Let’s do it!’

Qamar laughed, full-throated and, Sebastian thought, very sexy. ‘I’m going to take these off, sweet boy,’ he said, gently touching Sebastian’s specs, taking them off when Sebastian noised consent, and setting them safely aside. ‘Now,’ he said, sounding almost aroused (Sebastian was too, with how those hands were in his hair), ‘let’s get started.’ He went over to the workstation and started looking through large bottles of potions, all hand-labelled and most in blue poison bottles.

‘After this, I’m getting a manicure,’ Sebastian said, happily. ‘Do mages wear acrylic nails?’

‘Ye-es,’ sang a voice with a beautiful head of shocking pink victory rolls, sashaying across the room and sitting down at Sebastian’s hand. ‘I _looove_ doing acrylics, _nobody_ lets me! I love you.’

‘Careful, Mitzy,’ Qamar said with a smile. ‘Albus might get jealous.’

‘He is _not_ mine,’ Dumbledore insisted, still mildly, from where he was now sitting in the waiting area, a magazine in his hands.

‘Of course he isn’t,’ Qamar said.

‘I _so_ am,’ Sebastian finally decided to say, mustering all of his courage and smiling more out of nerves than flirtation—though it helped, all the same. There were squeals, whistles, and other noises that suddenly filled the air, making it feel rather like an aviary for a few moments. Sebastian revelled in the sheer joy of being around his own people.

‘So-o,’ Mitzy lilted, settling at Sebastian’s right hand, Summoning his tools and a small table with his wand. ‘What do you want?’

‘Long coffin shape, hot pink and glitter, maybe some rhinestones for accent? Very sparkly, very...’ Sebastian trailed off, trying to think of what he wanted. This was England, he had to phrase it differently. ‘American trailer trash glam. Dolly Parton and Anna Nicole Smith are my fashion idols.’

‘Oooh, I _like_ you!’ Mitzy said, starting Sebastian’s hand soaking in warm water.

‘I bet magic makes them less likely to break, right?’

‘Oh, yes, if any of _my_ nails were to break, I’d consider it a _personal_ failing.’

‘Unbreakable Mitzy,’ the pretty fat witch teased. ‘That’s what we call him.’

When he walked out of the salon two hours later, Sebastian felt like a changed man. For the first time, he felt truly _beautiful_ , head to toe. He turned to Dumbledore, smiling slow and curling.

‘So,’ he said. ‘What do you think of your sugar baby, _Daddy?’_

Dumbledore lifted his brows, laughing out of sheer surprise. ‘You oughtn’t tease an old man, Sebastian.’

‘Who said I was teasing?’ Sebastian returned, raising a brow. ‘I know you have all the power in this relationship,’ he said, turning serious again. ‘I know that you are _scared,_ when you look at me, that you’re being Daddy Warbucks because... you want me to forget what happened before, maybe. To have something nice to wash away the horror.’

Dumbledore was quiet, while they walked along the street a while, the cloudy sky above. Even though this street was the High Street, and the most fashionable and rich of England’s magical world walked all around them, there was something brighter about Sebastian, something unashamed and loud. He complimented people freely, smiled wide, was far more open than the Englishwixen around him. It startled some, it delighted others. There were few children, but they reacted with wide eyes at his colourful hair.

‘Mameh!’ cried a small child from their mother’s arms, leaning toward Sebastian. ‘Mameh _look_! Rainbow!’

‘Hi!’ Sebastian said to the little one. ‘I’m Sebastian.’

‘Your hair is _pretty_.’

Sebastian laughed kindly. ‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, Headmaster!’ said the mother, as Dumbledore caught up. ‘Is he—ah, a friend of _yours_?’

Sebastian heard her tone, that said if Sebastian were a friend of _Dumbledore’s_ , then well, he was all _right,_ wasn’t he? He was safe to have around her children, if he was a friend of _Dumbledore_. Famous _and_ rich, Sebastian thought. And handsome, too, it was rare to see a man his age with long hair that was so lovingly cared for, so silver and so silky.

‘Sebastian is going to be a new teacher at Hogwarts, this year. Sebastian, this is Mira Rosier.’

‘Ma’am,’ Sebastian said, bowing since she clearly had her hands full of baby.

‘Are you teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, then?’ Ms Rosier asked, shifting the toddler to her other hip.

‘Mameh!’ The toddler was not happy to be taken out of range of that hair, reaching for it.

‘Don’t touch strangers’ hair, Hiram,’ Ms Rosier said. ‘We don’t touch people without asking, remember?’

‘But rainbow.’

‘Not even rainbow,’ she said, firmly.

‘Maybe you can make _your_ hair rainbow,’ Sebastian suggested to Hiram, who looked as though Sebastian had handed him the very moon.

‘Rainbow hair! I want rainbow hair please!’ he shouted it with a toddler’s complete lack of ability to control their volume.

Ms Rosier gave Dumbledore a despairing look, but smiled. ‘I see he’s like you, infecting the youth with eccentric ideas.’

‘If anyone should have colourful hair, I suppose it ought to be children, don’t you think?’ Dumbledore said mildly, smiling and offering a wrapped sweet from his pocket. ‘Kosher,’ he said to Ms Rosier, whose smiled turned a little more fond. She took it, and Sebastian heard their conversation as the two Rosiers walked on past them.

‘You’re good with children,’ Dumbledore said, and Sebastian looked surprised.

‘Am I? I never really know what to do with them, other than smile and show them that people are friendly and kind.’

‘That is a great deal,’ Dumbledore said, smiling. They walked on for a time, Sebastian absorbed in the window displays, which, he kept commenting ‘we don’t have in America anymore’. It gave Dumbledore time to think on how to reply—and on how Sebastian had acted in the salon, answering all the flirtatious teasing by implying heavily that he was, yes, he was Dumbledore’s boy. He was an amicable man, very flirtatious, very social, undoubtedly a Gemini; but he could be serious, as evidenced only a few moments ago.

‘I know horror cannot be erased with pleasure,’ Dumbledore said, after a time. ‘I often find, however, that when one feels one doesn’t have to worry about the necessities, and when one also feels one looks one’s best, it helps.’

‘True,’ Sebastian said, but gave him nothing more than an expectant lilt. Dumbledore chuckled.

‘Sharp.’

‘I have an ex husband,’ Sebastian said flatly. ‘I don’t want a second one.’

‘I do also,’ Dumbledore said, ‘in a manner of speaking. I swore never to allow myself to have another.’

‘Better to be lonely than abused, am I right?’

Dumbledore thought on that. ‘Mine abused others, not me,’ he said quietly. ‘A blood supremacist.’

‘Oh geez,’ Sebastian said, wincing. ‘Uh, wow, that um... I feel like mine being a controlling—’

‘Please, Sebastian,’ Dumbledore said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t go down that road.’

Sebastian smiled gratefully. ‘It’s not a contest,’ he agreed, nodding to himself. ‘So,’ he said, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘Look at us, coupla sad gays with broken hearts who’ve sworn off men.’ He looked up at the sky, and then at Dumbledore (he was a good deal shorter than Dumbledore, which wasn’t difficult, considering Dumbledore was six and a half feet tall). ‘What say you just keep buying me presents, and I fuck you, and love has nothing to do with the arrangement?’

Dumbledore thought about it. ‘Sebastian, dear boy, I think you are the first person to ever make such an offer.’

A dramatic gasp. ‘ _No_! Really?’ He saw the truth in Dumbledore’s face, in his silence, and his surprise became more than camp. ‘ _Really_? God, are people just not _looking_ properly? I am _outraged_ on your behalf, Albus. What the _actual fuck_.’

Dumbledore chuckled, as much in delight at the feeling of actually _blushing_ again. Merlin, when was the last time he’d done that? ‘People don’t generally _look_ , I find. I’m known more for my brain.’

‘I mean, yeah, okay, granted—but you’re also _a catch_ , you know that, right? Please tell me you know that. You’re like... god, you’re like, like Oscar Wilde meets Beau Brummell okay? Like, _fucking hell_ , my dude.’ Sebastian was really enjoying himself now, he loved nothing more than being angry and using it to aggressively praise someone. And Dumbledore _was_ blushing, and it was _cute._ ‘Hey, I have an idea,’ he said, stopping. Dumbledore stopped with him. They were nearly at the cafe he wanted to take Sebastian to, the patio was visible.

‘Elucidate me.’

Sebastian giggled. ‘How about I kiss you?’

‘Here?’

‘Right here, in front of the press and everybody.’

Dumbledore glanced around; he could name almost everyone here, and they were already looking this way every time they passed, attracted by the colourful rainbow and glitter of Sebastian, and the sight of Dumbledore, who wasn’t exactly a moderate dresser, himself.

‘Why not.’

Sebastian went up on tiptoe, threading his fingers in Dumbledore’s hair, sighing, and Dumbledore leaned down obligingly, as he always had done, and let his hands rest on Sebastian’s soft waist.

He was a very good kisser, slow and unhurried, not angling for anything beyond the kiss itself. And his hands, his long nails sliding through Dumbledore’s hair... Dumbledore slid his own hands lower by a fraction, enough to enjoy the softness of those hips with a gentle squeeze... and didn’t care. Didn’t care who saw, what the press would say, what Sebastian would think—because he’d said it plainly, and would continue to do so. He was a plain-spoken man, he knew what he wanted, and did not apologise for it.

Sebastian loved long, slow kisses, and hummed when Dumbledore’s hands, long and beautiful hands, squeezed his hips. He slid his fingers through all that silvery hair, and pulled away only because his neck was starting to hurt. ‘You are,’ he said, with a dreamy smile, ‘ _so_ delicious.’

‘Mm. As are you.’

‘Buy me dinner.’

‘It would be my pleasure.’


	2. Professor Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this without access to anything but the film as canon; and, given that I like the idea of the other schools arriving at the beginning of the year as it makes more sense, I kept it.

The Great Hall was abuzz with excitement, as Dumbledore stood before the students to make the usual announcements before the feast. There were not one but  _two_ new teachers, along with a Ministry official that did not look happy. 

One of the teachers was an Auror; the older or better-informed students whispered along their tables that this was Alastor Moody, the famous dark wizard hunter. The Ministry official, that was Crouch, head of international magical cooperation. But the third man, with the long rainbow hair, wearing glittering makeup and robes of shot silk—nobody knew who  _that_ was. He didn't seem arrogant, like Lockhart, but all the same, flamboyance was never a good sign in a teacher.

'This year, as you have no doubt noticed, we have some new faces at the High Table. I would like you to join me in welcoming our new Defence Against The Dark Arts professor, Alastor Moody.'

There was a lot of rather genuinely enthusiastic clapping—Moody looked like he'd be a good professor, with all his scars, and his auror robes being worn in, and his strange and slightly disturbing eye. After the applause died down, and Moody sat down, Dumbledore went on.

'We also welcome another new professor and staff member—Sebastian Rose, who will be teaching a course not required by the Ministry, but nonetheless deeply important and, I hope, very interesting: Theatre Arts.'

There was a kind of relief, at this; it was, everyone felt, perfectly  _all right_ for a teacher to glitter like some kind of exotic bird if he was teaching  _theatre_ . Sebastian stood, gave a sparkling stage smile, and spoke in a clear, ringing,  _American_ voice.

'This year, we will be putting on a musical from Broadway. Everyone who joins my class will get a part, whether it's performing on stage or wearing the black and working to support the performers from backstage. And,' he added, 'when I say everyone, I mean  _everyone_ that is here this year—the stage doors are open to Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students as well!'

There was great surprise at this, but from the delight in the faces of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, and their cheering, it was not unwelcome. Many of the teachers looked surprised, as did Karkaroff and Madame Maxime--clearly, that inclusion was unexpected improvisation. Or, perhaps, all of it had been, and Dumbledore had given Rose free reign.

-

The fourth years were the first to have class with Professor Rose, and as they entered his classroom, they found it wasn't a classroom at all, but a theatre in grand style, with plaster reliefs, decorative moulding, rows and rows and rows of purple velvet seats, a balcony, and an orchestra pit, and a huge and shining stage with a heavy purple curtain. A huge crystal chandelier with not a speck of dust  n or stray drip of candlewax hung in the centre of the room, its hundreds of candles glittering as they flickered a strange rosy colour. 

Standing on stage, dressed in soft trousers of a vivid purple and a hot pink t-shirt, rainbow hair pulled back in an artfully messy topknot, and with a face full of makeup, was Professor Rose.

'Welcome!' he called out, with that big voice and bigger smile again. 'Welcome! Come, come up here on stage! Leave your bags on a seat, did you dress for moving? Ah, good, good, fabulous! And hello!' he called out as the door opened again, letting in some Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, all dressed in gym clothes and soft shoes as well.

To Harry’s surprise, Draco Malfoy seemed focussed and respectful of this teacher, even smiling at him.

‘What are we doing first, Professor Rose?’ Hermione asked, a little nervous. She didn’t much like practical classes, but she had still come to this one, for reasons Harry didn’t know yet.

‘Warm up!’ Rose said, with a bounce, throwing his hands up in the air with enthusiasm. ‘We gotta shake loose that shyness and worry and get to know each other! Now, show of hands, who is familiar with Broadway?’

A few hands went up, barely a dozen—but Hermione was one of them. ‘What show are we doing?’ she asked.

‘Wicked!’ Professor Rose announced, beaming. ‘I thought it best, and the School Board seemed to think so too.’

‘ _Did_ they?’ Hermione was in shock; she knew what Wicked was about. ‘Have they, er, _seen it_?’

‘Well no, of course, they’re much too busy to attend Broadway shows; but I summarised it and they agreed with me about it having important themes.’

‘It’s about friendship and the transition from school years to adulthood, Father said,’ Draco piped up, rather less smugly than usual; he was too genuinely interested. ‘He said you actually _sang_ for them.’

‘Of course I did! It’s a _musical!_ Now, climb up on stage, all of you, come on, we’re going to play a fun game with this deck of cards....’

-

When he wasn’t in class, Professor Rose spent a lot of time outside, in trees or on top of other mildly high structures, reading. He didn’t have papers to grade, and so he got a lot of reading done. When he wasn’t reading, he was just strolling around, always finding someone to talk to, often laying out tarot cards for them on the grass, on the ground, on tables, or wherever he was.

Everyone seemed to like him, or at least, not think he was  _threatening_ . He laughed the loudest and spoke with enthusiastic gestures at the High Table, but just as often he was sitting at one of the tables  _with other students_ , talking and laughing with them as easily, rotating which house he visited. 

‘Are you allowed to do that?’ Ron asked, as they walked back up to the tower one night.

‘Is it in Hogwarts, A History?’ Harry wondered allowed, and Hermione smiled in satisfaction that they were finally catching on.

‘There’s no rules about who can sit where, it’s just tradition.’

‘Trust an American to ignore tradition,’ Ron said with a grin.


	3. PR Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: Adults acting like adults!

Professor Rose appeared from the shadows—he hadn’t been wearing any invisibility cloak, simply dark grey jeans and an olive-green hooded jumper, his colourful hair hidden beneath its hood.

‘I believe the rules state that champions may choose a second,’ he said, waiting expertly for a break in the arguing of the other adults. He came into the light of the fire as they did so, not partaking in the argument—because he never, Harry knew, partook in arguments. He simply waited for them to stop, much like Dumbledore. 

‘Subsection A of paragraph six of rule number three, if I recall correctly: Champions may name a second, a wizard or witch over the age of thirty years, to aid or take over the Task, in the event a Task becomes life-threatening.’ 

‘I want a second,’ Harry said immediately, relieved to have the Professor come to his rescue.

‘So you’ll win! This is—’

‘He is a _fucking_ child!’ Rose snapped at Karkaroff, with a rare flash of terrfiying rage, his voice scaling down and _booming_.

‘As are you, _boy_ ,’ Karkaroff hissed, sure this wizard was only in his twenties, if that.

‘Professor Rose is, I believe, thirty years old,’ Dumbledore said quietly. ‘And his point is salient, Igor; Harry is fourteen years old. He _is_ only a boy.’

Harry didn’t much like being called a boy and a child, but the way Rose and Dumbledore were saying it made him feel funny and warm and protected. Crouch was reading through a book that he’d pulled from his pocket and Enlarged; Harry supposed that was the rulebook, and remembered Professor Rose reading the same book weeks ago; the cover was made of something that glimmered like scales, which is why he could recognise it.

‘He’s right,’ Crouch said, surprised. ‘The second must volunteer, and be a capable witch or wizard of sound mind, _not_ a Head of House or Headmistress or Headmaster, nor a teacher of any magical subject, an Auror, or any ministry official.’

‘I volunteer,’ Rose said.

‘You’re a professor, sir.’

‘Of theatre. That’s not magical.’ Rose gave a bright grin. ‘It says _magical_ subjects.’

Crouch looked at him a long time, and frowned deeply.

‘I think is fair,’ Krum said, quietly. ‘If he must play, then is fair to have help for small boy.’

‘Oui,’ Fleur said, ‘I agree wiz Monsieur Krum.’

Cedric shrugged, smiling. ‘I’m a Hufflepuff,’ he said simply. ‘Fair play and all that. Shame Harry can’t bow out, but at least we can even the playing field for him.’

Harry felt a bit better, hearing the support from the other champions; though he noted the adults still looked unhappy about it, Moody most of all.

‘Very well,’ Crouch said, the only one that sounded relieved. ‘Professor Rose is Mr Potter’s second. Do any other champions wish to name one?’

‘Zat would be unfair,’ Fleur said, tossing her silvery hair. Krum nodded curtly in agreement, and Cedric nodded, shrugging amicably.

‘I don’t feel like I need one,’ he said, cheerful.

‘Good. Awesome. Do we have a PR person for this disaster?’ Rose asked brightly. ‘Because rumour can be halfway round the world before truth gets its boots on.’

‘You seem astonishingly _prepared_ for this,’ Snape sneered.  Rose had never done anything impolite—in fact, he was deeply interested in Potions, and asked very good questions after he’d read a few books Snape had recommended; but perhaps _because_ of this, Snape hated him more.

‘Darling, I’m from theatre—you put on a show and something _always_ goes spectacularly wrong. Especially when fire is involved,’ he added, and Harry stifled a  laugh. The gall it took to call Snape ‘darling’ was astounding. Snape seemed to think so as well. 

‘If ze rules bind him, zen we must adapt,’ Madame Maxime said philosophically, though she looked... some kind of upset, Harry couldn’t tell how.

Karkaroff’s mouth twitched, and Harry got the feeling he was having a very hard time finding something to say. He finally glared at Krum. ‘Come,’ he snapped, and swept out of the room. Krum looked at Harry as he passed, and even though it was just a look, Harry felt like perhaps Krum was more shy than hostile.

When it was just the Hogwarts staff and champions left, Dumbledore expertly herding them all out the door, the Headmaster turned to them all.

‘I’m afraid no one is going to believe that Harry is innocent of this,’ he said sadly.

‘Depends on how you handle information control, babe,’ Rose said, crossing his legs as he sat on a nearby chair.

‘You can’t call the Headmaster “babe”, Mister Rose!’ McGonagall said in a strained whisper that was trying hard not to be a scream of horror.

‘Of course he may, Minerva,’ Dumbledore said, chuckling. ‘Those in theatre have their honorifics, and we have ours.’

‘I must confess Rose has a point,’ Crouch said. ‘We must control what gets to Prophet.’

‘Well,’ Cedric said, gamely. ‘I mean, I know we can’t work together, but I can tell everyone I know the truth.’

‘Why don’t we have a newspaper for the school, speaking of the truth?’ Rose wondered. ‘Be a lot easier to disseminate truth that way.’

‘Ah, perhaps it would, perhaps it would,’ Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. ‘Americans usually have those, don’t they?’

‘When there’s funding,’ Rose said, with a bit of a blade beneath his smile. ‘But I can’t see why a private—I mean, a _public_ school can’t  afford one.’ 

‘They call them private schools in America,’ Harry told Cedric in an undertone, because he’d asked Professor Rose one time when he’d slipped up before. 

‘I think a newspaper’s a grand idea,’ Cedric said, ‘I bet the Ravenclaws would love it, and it would really build spirit to have all the houses work together on something. May I start one, Headmaster?’

Dumbledore smiled; really, that had been a masterful stroke. Many, of course, didn’t see it; even Severus, keen as he was, didn’t. But perhaps his disdain for Rose, his protectiveness of his house, overshadowed it: Rose was a Slytherin. In a five minute conversation he’d wormed his way into being influential.

Dumbledore was pleased at how well he’d  already wrapped the School Board—especially Lucius Malfoy—around his fingers. Of course,  _Dumbledore_ had seen Wicked. And he knew precisely where ‘rumour can get around the world before truth can get its boots on’ came from , as well.

A printing press was, after all, more dangerous than even a dragon.

-

##  **Trouble With** **The Triwizard** **Tournament**

_Yesterday evening, the Triwizard Champions were revealed—as well as a shocking twist to a long-standing tradition. As many readers already know, H. Potter (14) of House Gryffindor, was bound into the Tournament through what experts are saying is an act of sabotage both reprehensible and worryingly powerful—too powerful for any but the most skilled and seasoned of wizards or witches._

_The other champions have been vocally disapproving of such dangerous rules as do not allow an underage wizard or witch to escape the contract the Goblet uses._

‘ _He is a child,’ said Fleur Delacour (17) of Beauxbatons. ‘It is unfair, and dangerous. My sister is his age, I would be terrified if she had to face such challenges.’_

_Indeed, most of our international guests are horrified not out of a sense that Hogwarts has some kind of unfair advantage, but because this puts in danger a young person, with seemingly no way to stop it._

‘ _This terrible incident points out that there is still much work to be done to update magical games for the modern era,’ B. Crouch ( 61), Head of International Magical Cooperation, told this paper when we reached out for comment. ‘We at the Ministry are using this as a sobering moment, and the rules of all games will be investigated to make sure they comply with modern health and safety regulations in future. I am deeply sorry that a child has been put in danger, and mean for it to never happen again.’_

_ However,  Crouch pointed out,  the rules contain a very interesting detail, allowing for the use of a second—so long as the second is the Traditional Age of Majority (30) and  not a teacher of magic, a ministry official, or judge. As it happens, Hogwarts has a person fitting these critera, who volunteered immediately: Professor Rose (30) of the Theatre Arts program. _

‘ _I love all of my kids,’ Professor Rose says, ‘You can bet I’m not letting one of them get hurt. Someone did this maliciously, and I think the Aurors should start investigating.’_

_ Indeed, a team of Aurors has arrived on Hogwarts grounds as of ten this morning, are conducting a thorough investigation of the Goblet itself, and will be staying through the Tournament to keep an eye out for more foul play. Students and  s taff alike have been asked to cooperate  and, most importantly, to not bother these experts as they go about their work. _

_Despite all of this, many seem determined to go on enjoying the Tournament. The Headmaster himself was quoted as saying, ‘The best thing to do to combat fear is to go about one’s business and enjoy oneself.’ Wise words. ~_

Harry had never read an article about himself that didn’t make him angry; the first broadsheet of the new school paper was certainly the last place he expected to actually enjoy reading about himself. He’d gone to bed convinced that everyone hated him, or would by morning; but as the paper was delivered (and Cedric and the other students must have worked through the night for it!), Harry heard the tone of the Great Hall become much different; instead of wild rumour and speculation, people were  _reading the news_ . They were taking it seriously! Even Draco! 

Professor Rose sat down beside him, still in a pair of pink velvet pyjamas that glittered a little. He poured himself some coffee and started filling his plate. ‘Morning,’ he said, a little sleepily—they had learnt that, like Snape, Sinistra, and Trelawney, Professor Rose was not a morning person. _Un_ like them, however, he was merely amicably sleepy in the mornings, and quieter than usual. Also a little prone to gallows humour.

‘Why do they believe it?’ Harry said. ‘Everyone always wants to condemn me.’ ‘condemn’ was a good word, a good grown-up sort of word.

‘Ah,’ Rose said, ‘but it’s _printed word_ now, they wouldn’t print it if it weren’t true.’ He stirred a great quantity of light cream into his coffee. ‘That’s the power of the printed word, Harry.’

‘Have you read Terry Pratchett, Professor Rose?’ Hermione asked, as she spread preserves on her toast.

‘Sure I have,’ Rose said, sipping his coffee. ‘Not everything—don’t care for his early work—but about ten of his books, I’d say. The ones to do with the Watch and Uberwald, and Moist. But my favourite is _T_ _he Truth_.’

‘Not _Moving Pictures_?’

Rose laughed, setting his cup down and starting on the streaky bacon that had started appearing on the table, along with a lot of other foods that were recognisably American, at the start of the year. ‘Darling, I grew up in the LA area, why would I want to read about it from somebody who didn’t?’

‘Ah,’ Hermione said, ‘I suppose that’s true.’

‘You’re from _California?_ ’ Harry knew what ‘LA’ meant from television. Sunshine and palm trees, movie stars and Disneyland and _why would anyone want to leave somewhere like that for the UK?_

‘Born and raised,’ Rose said, ‘Spent a little time in New York City, never made it there, was with a terrible man for most of my twenties, left him, nearly ended up on the street because of it, then I got the job here. Always wanted to live in Britain.’

‘But— _why?’_

‘I ask that when people say they want to live in Hollywood.’ He snorted. ‘You’re more likely to get shot in Hollywood than to see a celebrity, these days. Britain,’ he declared, with that funny glint in his eye that he sometimes got, ‘has _single-payer healthcare.’_

Harry wasn’t at all sure what that meant, so he looked to Hermione for clues. She was nodding solemnly.

‘Has what?’ Ron asked, and Harry was glad someone did.

‘America’s government doesn’t believe its job is to take care of Americans. We have to pay for medicine out of our own pocket. If we can’t, we don’t get it.’

Ron was uncomprehending. ‘But... what if you’re poor?’

‘Then you hope to gods you never need a doctor. It’s the American Way,’ Rose said, with the kind of overdramatic pride that was acridly satirical, and very angry beneath. ‘America’s a terrible place to live. Don’t go there, kids.’ He bit into his bacon sandwich with, it must be said, some aggression, and stopped talking while he got down to the business of eating.

‘How are you going to help Harry, Professor?’ Hermione asked, after he’d finished the sandwich and was on his second cup of coffee. He took a lot of cream in it.

‘Anything up to doing it for you, Harry,’ Rose said, which Harry thought was comforting, really.

‘That’s cheating, isn’t it?’ Ron said, frowning.

‘Y’all’re fourteen,’ Rose said, sipping his coffee. ‘Anyway, I wouldn’t accept the trophy or anything, I’m just doing it to protect Harry.’ He shrugged, and watched Draco Malfoy get up and start walking over.

Draco looked furtive, but excited, and met eyes with Professor Rose. By now, everyone was used to students getting up and crossing the Hall to talk to Professor Rose, so even Ron tried to ignore Malfoy. Harry glanced at him, but just as pointedly glanced away. The etiquette was that you weren’t there to talk to other students, you were talking to the professor.

‘Good morning, Professor Rose,’ Malfoy said politely.

‘Mornin love,’ Rose said, turning his head to look over his shoulder. It was a tight fit at the breakfast table, so he couldn’t fully turn on the bench. ‘What’s up?’

‘Just wondering when auditions are, for the show,’ Malfoy asked. Harry wasn’t sure why he was so breathless, except he’d been walking very fast. ‘Given that you’re, you know, going to be participating in the tournament, it’s... they’re soon, right? Or are they after the first task?’

‘Who did you wanna be, dollface?’ Rose drawled, smiling at Draco, who actually _blushed_.

‘I—er, Elphaba. I mean—I thought I could—you know, play her as a boy.’

‘Of course,’ Rose said. ‘Elphaba and Galinda auditions are this afternoon after classes. Be there.’

‘I will! Thank you, sir, I won’t disappoint you!’

Rose sighed as Draco practically ran off. ‘I’m never disappointed in you, hon,’ he murmured sadly, under his breath; but it was just loud enough for Harry to hear.

-

Auditions were fierce, that afternoon. Lots of people wanted to be the lead roles, and there was a lot of arguing in a few languages, and then a fight broke out and Rose’s voice boomed louder than anyone had ever heard.

‘Hey-ey-eyey!’ he shouted, slamming his staff on the floor. It gave a thunderous noise, startling everyone into silence. ‘ _Arrête ça!_ _Izklyuchete go!_ _K_ _nock it off!’_ He was frowning, ,and it looked even more terrible with all the glitter and colour he wore on his face, as he crossed to where the fight had broken out between some Beauxbatons students. ‘The hell d’you think you’re doing? What do you think this is, _opera_?’ He demanded, and turned to the only injured party, a fifteen-year-old boy who now sported ugly scratches on his face, his makeup in ruins and his hair mussed. He was trying defiantly not to cry, as Professor Rose gently examined the damage. There was a lot of angry French, and Professor Rose ignored it.

‘Ne parler pas. I only speak a very little bit,’ he said. ‘What’s your name, honey?’

‘Sacha LaCroix,’ he said.

‘That’s a pretty name,’ Rose said softly. He looked to the other students that had been fighting. He beckoned one. ‘Wand. You,’ he said, taking the wand, and pointed. ‘Sit over there. You, wand.’ he took the next wand, pointed another direction, ‘over there. And you, there, and you over there. Ten minutes, cool off. Sacha, we’re going backstage to clean you up, and you’re gonna stay there and cool off for ten minutes too. Everyone else _cool your damn jets_ , _J_ _e_ sus _C_ _hrist_ , I know you’ve all got hormones raging everywhere but calm the _fuck_ down. Everyone take a break and journal while I handle this injury, got it?’

‘Yes, professor,’ came a few obedient voices.

‘We weren’t even involved!’

‘You were present for a stressful situation, you were involved,’ Rose answered the protester, leading Sacha by the hand up the stag steps. ‘Mandatory journal break. Now.’ He went behind the velvet curtain, into the wings.

‘I don’t care who did this,’ he said, as he sat by while Sacha cleaned off his face. ‘That’s not important. What’s important is you got hurt, and we need to handle that.’

‘Dittany,’ Sacha said, ‘It will help.’

‘Snape, then.’

‘The hospital wing?’

‘Ah,’ Rose said. ‘You think it’s that serious?’

‘Mais non, but there _is_ a nurse, is there not?’

‘I forget that,’ Rose said, chuckling. ‘ “Hospital Wing” sounds so _serious_ , you know?’

Sacha laughed. ‘A little, perhaps.’

‘Do you want to go?’

‘I would miss auditions,’ Sacha said.

‘True, and I want you to audition for me. Just take a minute. Gods know I need a minute, after that. Can I leave you here safely?’

‘Oui, professeur. I will be good.’ A cheeky little smile. Rose chuckled, and got to his feet, going back out on stage.

H e kept the other students back, along with a fully bilingual student willing to translate. They were late to dinner, but seemed to be in better moods. Professor Rose signalled he wanted to make an announcement, and the Hall went a little quiet, anticipating.

‘November marks the beginning of an international holiday for the arts that started in my humble little state of California: National Novel-Writing Month! Write a novel from start to finish in thirty days with me! Anybody— _anybody_ —who wants to participate, sign up with me after dinner. Every Saturday, we’ll have a workshop in the Great Hall after lunch. Wordcounts will be posted by house points over there, and winners will be announced on December first. 

‘If you’ve always wanted to write a novel, but kept it to a “someday”, today’s the someday! If deadlines and competition motivate you, then use this holiday to _create_ competitively. An anonymous patron has even decided to dangle a prize—everyone who finishes their first draft by the thirtieth gets to have it looked at by a publisher!’ 

The Ravenclaws were the first ones to burst into thunderous cheering, but everyone else followed suit for the spirit of the thing. You couldn’t help but get excited, if Professor Rose was excited about something; he was infectiously enthusiastic, with his expressive face and his gesturing.

‘Second announcement,’ Rose said, after the cheering had died down. ‘Today, as many of you know, was auditions. Callbacks will be next Saturday, and the final cast list will be announced after the First Task on november twenty-fourth. At dinner.’ He gave a wry grin. ‘Because we have to be dramatic, this is _drama class_.’

There was laughter, and he sat back down.

-

Harry was glad when he didn’t make it to callbacks; he hadn’t auditioned at all, even though he liked the class very much. He was pleased that he wasn’t very good, but not very bad either. Being middling at anything was a luxury Harry rarely had. It was fun, that was all, to play the acting games, and sing, and learn how to dance and do makeup.

Malfoy was amazing. His voice was clear and beautiful and very high; Harry was awed, and couldn’t stop watching Malfoy the first time he sang solo.  This, unfortunately, did not go unnoticed.

‘Got anything to say about my voice, Potter?’

‘You sound like an angel,’ Harry said, in something of a hushed voice. Malfoy’s scowl faltered, and softened to something Harry had never seen, and almost didn’t recognise, until Malfoy’s cheeks went darkish red.

‘Thanks,’ Malfoy said, sounding as startled as Harry felt.


	4. The First Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'what did you do?'  
> '*muttering*'  
> 'WHAT.'  
> 'wrote ovi on accident'  
> 'HOW THE [FUCK](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gTaxOMEbdE) DO YOU WRITE OVI ON ACCIDENT'

Harry took off the Invisibility Cloak and knocked on the door that the Maurauder’s Map said Professor Rose was behind. It was a corridor the teachers were in usually, and Harry had never been up here. After a few moments were nobody answered, and Professor Rose’s dot wasn’t moving, Harry dared to knock a little louder. It took another try, before the dot moved, and the door was answered.

‘...Harry,’ Professor Rose was fully awake, wearing a pair of pink silk pyjama pants, taking an earplug out of one ear as he nudged the door open with his slippered foot. ‘Sorry, I sleep with earplugs...’ He closed the door, locked it. ‘What’s up, honey?’

‘The first task is dragons,’ Harry said all in a rush.

‘Okay, hang on, let me get some water and get a light on in here… g’wan and siddown, hon, breathe like a wheel.’

It was a phrase he used often, and had taught them what he meant. You closed your eyes, imagined your breaths flowed with the turning of a wheel. Harry wasn’t the only one who’d thought, at first, that it was stupid. Professor Rose had said that was what he’d thought at first, too. Really, though, it helped because it gave you something to _do_ , something else to think about. Harry tried to focus on it, as Professor Rose bustled around, lighting his glow-crystals and starting the kettle, then went over to his desk for a pencil.

‘Okay,’ he said, licking the pencil tip. ‘Dragons. Awesome. Anything else?’

‘Um… they’re all nesting females?’

‘Okay, that’s interesting. That it?’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said; instead of feeling like a failure, though, he felt like a detective, the way Professor Rose was writing things down in a flip-top notebook.

‘A’right,’ Rose said, sounding more and more like an American detective as he leaned back in his desk chair, ‘So, we gotta nesting female dragon, no eggs. She’s lookin for eggs. What does this mean for you? Ideas, go.’

Harry thought on the rambling conversations he’d overheard Professor Rose having with Lee Jordan about spiders, and with Harry himself about snakes. ‘They’re… very dangerous. She’ll be worried about her babies.’

‘Right, very distressed. I hate this tournament already—I mean, _animal cruelty_? Really? Is this the fifteen-hundreds? _**Ugh**_ ,’ he said, with feeling, still using that brash detective voice. ‘Some people got no taste, Harry.’

‘If she’s scared, she’ll be aggressive,’ Harry said, nervously.

‘Why would they want nesting females…?’ Rose muttered to himself in more of his normal accent, tapping the eraser of the pencil on his lips. ‘Welp, it’s time to look up dragon behaviour,’ he said, getting to his feet and going to the stairs at the back of the classroom. ‘Gotta get clothes on, be right back.’

‘Okay,’ Harry said, and in the moments afterward, while he was waiting, he wondered what the giant scar across Professor Rose’s chest was. He knew he could never ask, but he did want to know. Soon, Rose was back, wearing pale jeans that fit like a glove and an aqua-green jumper that had a flamingo on it. It clashed-but-didn’t with his hair.

‘Okay sweetie, let’s head to the library.’

‘What, now?’

‘We’re awake aren’t we? And I’m a teacher, aren’t I? What’re they gonna do, give _me_ detention for being out of bed? C’mon, kiddo.’

Harry followed, a little numb at the idea that, because Professor Rose was with him, _he wasn’t going to get in trouble_.

To Harry’s surprise, there was another occupant in the library—Fleur Delacour, her hair put up in a braid, wearing a jumper over her expensive-looking pyjamas, books about dragons all over the table she was sitting at.

Professor Rose sat down with her. ‘Hiya, kiddo,’ he said. She looked warily at him.

‘Bonsoir, Professeur,’ she said, unsure of his intentions. It occurred to Harry that _she might have snuck in here_.

‘Let’s put our heads together, yeah?’

‘Zis is a _contest_ , Professeur.’

‘This is a _game_ where the point is to _make friends_.’

‘Touché,’ Fleur shifted the book she was reading. ‘And I ‘ear you know much about animals, non?’

‘My best friend is a marine zoologist,’ Rose said in reply. ‘And I loooove dragons, so let’s get started. Nesting behaviour and dracling-rearing behaviour is what we’re looking for.’

Harry was surprised, yet again, by how easily Rose could just… make people be friendly by being aggressively _friendly_ with them, first.

They spent the next few hours studying, and learning some French, too. Harry found out that Fleur had a little sister only a year younger than him, Gabrielle; and they both learned that Rose’s first language had been French, though he’d forgotten most of it.

‘But you are not Quebecois? I sought you were, you have ze accent.’ She wrinkled her pretty nose, and they both laughed, though Harry wasn’t sure why.

‘What?’ he asked. Was he just tired?

‘A Quebecois accent is like an American accent, but with French,’ Rose explained.

‘Ohh,’ Harry said. He knew that French people were very fussy about their language, from Hermione’s stories about her holiday in France.

As it turned out, Fleur _didn’t_ have a pass; Madame Pince came over and tried to kick them out, but Professor Rose stood up for Fleur.

‘She came to me and asked to be here, she has a pass. Don’t you Fleur, I saw you put it in your pyjama pocket.’

Fleur reached into her pocket, and found a slip of parchment, signed and dated. She gave this to the librarian, who studied it with narrow eyes for a long time, before finally handing it back.

‘This is _highly_ irregular, Professor Rose,’ she sniffed.

‘So are the circumstances,’ Professor Rose said. ‘What _exactly_ is the matter with a teacher escorting two students to a late-night study session? We don’t have food or drinks, we aren’t yelling, and we aren’t destroying property. So please, tell me what we’re doing wrong, I’m all ears.’ His tone was strained, too sweet, too sharply so, like saccharin.

Madame Pince could not answer, and glared, before leaving them alone. Professor Rose sat back down. Fleur was still standing, staring at the slip of parchment.

‘When did you put zis in my pocket?’ she asked him in a hushed voice as she sat down all at once, leaning low over the books. He only smiled at her mysteriously, and she gave a muffled laugh, her blue eyes dancing with mirth.

‘You are very naughty, Professeur!’ she said, still in the hushed voice that wasn’t quite a whisper.

Harry was reading through the book that seemed the least incomprehensibly boring. It wasn’t that old, and he’d seen Charlie’s name in the list of contributing authors, so he’d flipped to that page first. Charlie Weasley, he was learning, had a very easy to understand way of explaining things. Harry was learning a lot about dragon mating, and courtship behaviour, and dracling-rearing. It was all very interesting, and he was sure he was on the edge of something useful as he turned the page.

_Some species, notably those from cold climates containing large carnivores, become much more aggressive when broody, due to draclings having natural predators in those habitats. Keepers are cautioned to not disturb adults when they become broody, and discouraged from attempting to ‘shake’ dragons from brooding using old methods such as water-ducking or caging. False eggs calm broody dragons, and the broody phase will naturally abate in six to twelve weeks on its own._

‘Professor,’ Harry said, softly, turning the book. ‘I think I’ve found something.’

Rose read over the passage, and smiled. ‘Like chickens,’ he murmured, and giggled.

‘Chickens?’ Fleur said, interested, and read it too. ‘Ah! Mais oui, zis is just like chickens.’

‘So we have nesting chantelles, one for each champion….’ Rose said, leaning back in his chair.

‘Zey must be guarding somezing,’ Fleur said. ‘And we must get it from zem, non?’

‘That makes sense,’ Harry said, ‘I think?’ He looked to Rose, who nodded and shrugged.

‘A good hypothesis. So the Task is to steal a dragon egg. Wow. Stay classy, Triwizard Tournament.’

Harry hid a very grown-up sort of laugh, at that; sarcasm was something he understood, of course (he _was_ English); but it so far had been a rare occurrence from Professor Rose.

-

Harry shared a look with his second as he drew out the dragon from the little bag, and handed it off to Rose.

‘Hi, baby,’ Rose cooed at the model of the Horntail, which breathed fire at him. ‘Now, now,’ Rose said, chuckling, and his voice turned velvet and villainous as he stroked the little toy. ‘ _Patience_ , pet, patience...’

It was—there was no mistaking it—sexual. Crouch cleared his throat, and Rose’s gaze was still all wickedness as he looked up, one side of his lips tugging upward.

The Task began, and Rose sat with Harry for it, talking to him of this and that, about how he’d taken his students’ advice and written to his mother, and how well that was going. He let Harry play on his phone, which miraculously worked, thanks to it being an American model, and American wixen being insistent that they needed their technology as much as their magic.

The time flew by, and then it was Harry’s—their—turn. Rose got up, handed Harry his phone, his watch, the tiny notebook he carried around, his favourite purple retractable biro. These were treasures, and Harry treated them as such. The notebook particularly was a gesture of trust.

Rose’s hair was already braided back, and he took off his robes to reveal a tanktop that was bright pink and said ‘Slay’ on it in white, which made Harry burst out laughing. He wasn’t the only one; Fleur covered her mouth with a snort. Rose got out a tube of hot pink lipstick, put some on, and gave a grin that made you worry about everything.

He left the tent, and Ludo Bagman asked him if he wanted to make any comments. Rose just patted his shoulder.

‘Not unless you want a lecture about animal cruelty and reckless child endangerment, old bean.’

He walked past Bagman, and into the ring.

And he began to _sing_. Harry wasn’t sure what he was singing, but it lilted like fairy singing, a little spooky and more than a little ethereal, like a call, like a howl of a wolf made into song.

The audience in the stands saw him, heard his voice pipe high and haunting and it sent shivers through the blood, as he raised his staff and began to move it slowly, twirl it in arcane shapes, repeating the wordless incantation as the dragon watched, wary and just as slowly gathering fire in her crop.

Charlie, watching with another keeper, tried to figure out what he was doing.

‘Is he taunting her?’ Lydia said, beside him. ‘Idiot, he’s gonna get—’

No sooner she’d said it than the flame poured forth, and Rose _slammed_ the staff-point down on the ground of the arena, an explosion of winter spiralling outward in fractals from where it struck, a wave of icy blast swallowing the flame.

Sebastian didn’t know it would work. He’d tested it a few times alone in the woods, but it needed full voice to do properly, and _it had worked_. The confidence surged, and he grinned. He could do this, if music was how he could access magic.

And the cold he generated, that wasn’t bothering him at all. He grinned, and now that the arena was a little too cold for fire to easily gather, and now that she’d wasted her blast, he had some time. She wasn’t scared yet, wasn’t ready to leave her clutch. He didn’t want to hurt her, or stress her, _Let’s try a lullaby…_

Retreating, slowly, he found a place where the rocks would echo, but he would be hidden, and settled down, leaning on a rock and choosing his next notes carefully. It had to be a good one—the best, one he could sing in an endless, trance-inducing loop. Ah, of course. _That_ one….

 _Go to sleep pretty baby_  
Go to sleep pretty baby  
Your momma’s gone away  
And your daddy’s gon’ stay  
Won’t leave nobody but the baby

The verses could be repeated endlessly, and didn’t require a lot of skill to improvise. He had to be able to keep this up a while. The song he built upon, layering each repetition to charge the spell, the intent, gathering the magic in the air with soft, cycling gestures of his hands, his staff leaning against his shoulder.

He had no idea how incredible this seemed to the audience.

-

He wasn’t using his staff, Dumbledore thought, in awe.

He wasn’t using his _staff_.

 _He wasn’t using his staff and he wasn’t even using verbal incantations_.

Dumbledore muffled a laugh. Wonders never ceased, even in his long life! And, too, though both of them had decided to never fall in love again, that love was dangerous, there was, too, that _potential_ that kept growing between them, deepening their friendship.

Did Sebastian realise he was using magic, _raw_ magic, in ways only Merlin was said to? Did he realise how the people saw him now, would always see him, as he pulled his inspiration from sources he felt were more than humble, were downright _shameful_? From stories and games and films dear to his heart?

Heartworkers, that was the very old term. Merlin had been the last, and that was because he’d been the last to be _taught_ by the Folk.

Sebastian was right to call himself a witch, to insist upon the term over ‘wizard’. But he wasn’t a witch as the term was used in England today. He was from something older, perhaps because he had no teacher, no influence but stories so old their origin was before writing. Rose was nothing less than a _sorcerer_.

Unlike Fleur and Krum and Cedric, Sebastian was trying to get the dragon calmed, even asleep. It wasn’t working, but after Sebastian figured that out, he just switched tactics; Dumbledore had reminded him that games were, after all, practise for reality.

-

So, she was immune to sleep. That was fine, Sebastian could work with that. What else could he do? Oh! Of course! This would be tricky, but he’d been preparing for it all his life, and now that he was really _using_ magic, it was _easy_.

Or.

Sebastian got an idea.

An awful idea.

A horrible, awful idea.

 _Here goes nothing_.

He’d read up on all dragon breeds, read up on them in his free time, even things that wouldn’t be useful. His favourite parts, courtship and mating rituals, genders, _sex…_

He turned into the prettiest damn drake this chantelle had ever seen, and peeked out from behind the rock with a submissive trill.

-

Charlie hated this job. He never said that in his letters, but most of being a dragon keeper was knowing just how much cruelty and suffering was going on, and having to stand aside—or even _facilitiate—_ it.

Watching this brash American walk out into the arena, with a shirt that proclaimed loudly what he was here to do, Charlie was afraid _for_ Calligenia. He’d rescued her from so much already, and now, here…

But then… Rose _hadn’t_. Still colourful even without all the makeup Charlie knew he usually wore, Rose at first used an offensive tactic, exhausting her fire and using her hatred of the cold against her; then, like Cedric, he’d tried to lull her to sleep. It had calmed her, but not quite how he’d wanted—now she was horny in more than appearance. Perhaps the spell had backfired…? The song _had_ been rather siren-like, and that might have been the mistake….

But then, out from his hiding place, Rose had appeared as a drake, cooing and fluffing. Where female Horntails were large and all over spikes, males were… well! For long centuries they’d been thought a different _species_ , and then they’d gone extinct when the chantelles suddenly became parthenogenic...

Charlie was surprised when Rose demonstrated _he knew the steps of the courtship ritual!_ He was cooing and fluffing his feathers, he had brought her a gift, and—oh, there were children in the audience, this was going to get educational fast….

-

It was terrifyingly thrilling, flirting wordlessly, in another language, with another species that might try and kill you; but shapeshifting came with instincts, came with _understanding_. Sebastian had wondered if morphing into a magical creature would unlock with it some secret, like sapience, so he could explain.

Low, so low it thrummed in his bones, her answering trill was barely that, too slow to be a purr, it reminded him of a noise an emu had made to him, once. The most beautiful noise he had ever heard.

He made a noise he didn’t consciously decide to make, and she invited him closer.

Ooh, was he going to get to actually fuck a dragon? He let her sniff and nuzzle his feathers, and oooh, oh god that felt _nice_ , and… she smelled nice, where was that smell coming from? He needed it. His mouth was watering.

-

Charlie waited for him to go for the egg, watched as Calligenia got more and more worked up, preening and nuzzling him, getting her scent-mark all over him, smoothing her spines and coaxing him deeper into her makeshift nest.

They’d asked for brooding females, the Games Department had, and Charlie was fairly sure most of them didn’t realise that if you presented a broody chantelle with a drake, she’d _make more eggs with him._

Of course, a seventeen-year-old wixen wasn’t usually capable of turning into a drake, Charlie reflected, as he watched with a dracologist’s delight and horrified anticipation at the proceedings.

‘...Is he… actually going to…’ Lydia, one of the other keepers, was similarly in shock. ‘Oh god. Weasley, we have to _stop them.’_

‘By doing what, exactly?’ Charlie said, numbly watching and reflecting that really, he didn’t want this to stop, Callie looked so _happy…._

-

He was going to do it.

He was going to fuck this dragon.

This was going to be a hell of a PR disaster and— _oh god apparently chantelles had an ovipositor could they_ _ **be**_ _any more perfect…_

_-_

‘ _Headmaster!’_

Dumbledore looked serenely at the Minister. ‘Hm?’

‘This is—we must stop them!’

‘I’m afraid the rules are not being broken.’

‘We are exposing children to—to depravity of the worst kind!’

‘Two dragons mating? Well, I believe there’s not…’ He craned his neck this way and that. ‘Yes, there’s not really _much_ depravity that they can _see_ from this vantage point. What do you think, Minerva?’

‘What do I think?’ she said. ‘I _think_ the man should have mentioned he was a _polymorph_.’

‘He did, I believe, mention at dinner last Tuesday that he worshipped Loki quite _fervently_.’

-

‘Oh la,’ Fleur said, frustrated that they weren’t allowed to watch. ‘Everyzing ‘as gone so quiet, what is ‘appening?’

Harry was trying to not pay attention, and instead focus on the puzzle game he was playing. He didn’t want to be afraid, he wanted to have the kind of unshakeable faith that Professor Rose had.

Krum, quietly, had come to sit down next to Harry, and was watching the phone screen. Harry didn’t mind. Krum smelled… rather nice, actually, and he was warmish, and quiet, and small, like Harry. Seekers were always small.

Cedric was actually trying to nap—understandable, really, doing a lot of magic was pretty exhausting.

Now that the adults were gone, though, nobody was really worrying about Professor Rose. They all knew him—Fleur, Cedric, and Harry were all in drama class, and Krum always came to watch; and even though he never played any games, he did all the homework. Harry wondered when he’d actually participate. Maybe he was just getting up the courage.

‘May I try?’ Krum said, quietly, after Harry had finished a round. Harry was surprised at how quiet the other boy’s voice was, and soft around the edges. Harry looked down at the phone.

‘Er… it’s not mine. Professor Rose said I needed to hold it for him.’

‘Okay,’ Krum said, shifting. ‘You hold. I move tiny faces around on screen.’

Harry couldn’t really find the fault in this, and cradled the phone carefully in his hands, watching Krum play. He was about as quick as Harry, once he got going.

-

Oh, god, he really shouldn’t be enjoying this, he was supposed to be…

The chantelle pushed another egg inside him, and he moaned.

Well, it wasn’t like he could do anything _else,_ right now, now that she had him pinned beneath her, ovipositor deep— _deep—_ _**oh fuck so deeeeeep** _

Well, he _was_ a bard… this _was_ how bards solved problems….

Another egg, and with how she was pressing him down, every one felt like it would be the last. Every one came with a surge of warm fluid, natural lubricant or something, that tingled and made him feel even _better_ than he already did.

Dimly, he wondered if he’d have to stay a dragon until he laid the eggs.

He wondered when he’d stop coming from all these stray thoughts.

He didn’t want to stop.

-

‘God, he’s really… er… he’s really just letting her do whatever she wants.’

Charlie was smiling, leaning on the railing. ‘She’s so happy; look at her, Lydia, doing something _natural_ and _good_ , she must feel so _safe_ ….’

Lydia realised… ‘You’d do that for her if you could, huh?’

‘Wouldn’t you, for yours?’

Lydia thought of her favourite dragons, and smiled again. ‘Yeah, fair enough. And… I guess it’s not weird, I mean, she’s definitely consenting, and… well… I guess he is too.’ She paused, and made a face. ‘I am… actually saying that and _meaning_ it.’

‘Better love than war,’ Charlie said with a breezy smile. ‘That’s what my dad always says.’

‘You sure your dad was thinking of letting a dragon fuck him full of eggs?’

Charlie laughed.

-

‘He’s so brave,’ Sprout said, as she pulled a bit more yarn from her workbag (she was an incurable knitter). ‘Finding a way to calm her down at any cost to the Task or himself.’

‘He did keep nattering on about animal cruelty,’ Snape said, wishing he were sitting with the Malfoys—they were the most entertaining to watch something like this with, their commentary was _amazing_. ‘I suppose _bestiality_ doesn’t count as cruelty, in his books.’

‘It isn’t bestiality if _you’re_ the one transfiguring,’ McGonagall said stiffly.

‘And it’s _bloody_ difficult to transfigure into a _magical_ creature, I think that takes precedence,’ Sinistra was _fascinated,_ her inkbrush sketching along as she spoke, avidly watching with artistic eye.

Dumbledore wondered, but had a very strong impression, that Rose was not considering this a sacrifice in any sense of the term….

-

_Oh! More! Yes! Harder! Yes, please, after filling me up please fuck me, god, I need it, I need it oh fuck it really is like scratching an itch, isn’t it? Ahhh, god she’s so big, she’s huge, and my tummy is so full full full, oh Christ I’m never living this down—wooooorth it, even if I get arrested or have to go live in the woods it’s so—ahh! Oh god what’s she doing to me? What’s happening **is that a knot**_

_-_

This was the best drake in the world. She had been angry and scared, and then there was the pit, and lots of shouting humans, and then… this human, who was not a human at all. He’d played a very strange game, hiding in a human skin like that. But oh, she wanted to learn how to do that, she’d be safer if she could be a human shape…

And a spacious drake too! It had been long centuries since she’d been able to lay a full clutch inside more than a nest; she was so big, and drakes had gotten so scarce. She kept him pinned so the eggs wouldn’t come out, her back legs kneading at his hips to help his body work them in all the way, and she sighed in pleasured relief to be empty again, and to pump him full of the fluid that came after the eggs, that kept them inside him, kept them protected…. She dipped her head down and nuzzled his face where it lay pressed to the rock. Poor little drake, he deserved better than this rock pit….

*Good boy.*

-

They could _talk?_ They could _talk!_

Sebastian felt more than physical pleasure, hearing those words, and a deep and satisfied purr came out of him. But he couldn’t do more than feel grateful and have a small aftershock orgasm, at the praise. He was entirely fucked out. Exhausted. And a mess to boot. But she was finally retracting her ovipositor and… oh…

Oh fuck.

She was licking him clean. And it felt like he had… nnnn… something resembling a cunt and…

*You’re so quiet,* she commented, as he trilled and purred at her tonguing. *Are you stupid? Or just dumb?*

Sebastian almost had it, almost… if she just talked to him a little more… nnh… her eating him out wasn’t helping matters at all. He heard her purring get a little lower, a little louder, her tongue snaking deep and—oh—oh god—

*Then again, maybe you just don’t have a voice because your belly is so full. Is that it, little drake? Can you not think because Silessa filled you so full?*

Oh, _fuck_ , she was starting on the dirty talk. He was going to die here, covered in scales and feathers and full of eggs…

Not a bad way to go. He hoped someone would tell Best Friend, she would be the only person who would really _know_ he’d died happy….

*S’l’ssa….* Good to know he could slur even in thought-speech. He was pretty sure his tongue was hanging out and his eyes were glazed over. *So full...*

*That’s right. What big hips you’ve got*

*Better to hold on to while you fuck me, Silessa...*

She paused in her licking of his cunt, finally let him up. Rose immediately flipped onto his side—she hissed at him, but made no move to attack, spreading her wings over him protectively. Mantling, he realised in the part of his brain that ran on science; she was mantling, protecting him.

*There are _humans_ around, drake!*

*They won’t hurt me, don’t worry.* He was slowly starting to gain back his senses. Task. Egg. Oh right, _egg!_ *They need something you found. It’s small, little small… yellow shiny. Thing.*

*The egg? But Friend gave it to me. They can’t have it!*

Friend? Who was Friend? *Friend?*

*Friend is in a human skin, like you were.* She was sniffing over his belly now, fussing, still hiding his body with her wings, keeping watch. *He brought me here. He is like a drake, but small. Human. But not human. Like you.*

Oh no. *I… I am human. I turned myself into a drake, for you,* he emphasised. *They—the other humans—they wanted me to hurt you, for sport. They told Friend to give you that egg because I was supposed to steal it from you. But I didn’t want to. They made me. So I tried to do it without hurting you. Do you understand?* He hoped she did, deception wasn’t as human-exclusive as stories always made it out to be. *but then… hnnnn… then you… filled me up and… oh you’re… it was….* He stopped trying, especially because she’d started kneading his swollen belly.

She thought on his words. *You’re like the other one. The one who made himself a tree because animals shouldn’t live so long as he did. He could wear all kinds of skins. My mother told me about him.*

*When did he live?*

*Long ago, when human smoke was not so plentiful, and there were places on the island without them.*

Something was sounding familiar about this, especially the being in a tree part…. Wait… Merlin ended up in a tree, didn’t he? She couldn’t possibly… be…. Comparing him to _Merlin_ that would be….

*What will happen to my eggs?* she said, pressing on him with her own body this time, rather than her paws. Did dragons have paws? She wasn’t using her talons, obviously….

He thought on how to answer. The books didn’t say how long the eggs were _inside the drake_ , in fact they didn’t seem to know about that step of things, because all the books ever talked about was nests. *I’ll keep them inside me as long as they need.* he decided, because he wasn’t about to put an entire clutch of draclings at risk. He could stay a dragon. That was fine. Jim Eckert did it, he was kind of living the dream, wasn’t he, being a dragon and all. *Wow, I have babies now.*

She head-butted him very gently, since her head was rather sharp and she was twice his size. *Silly drake, they’re not your babies. They’re mine. Just like you are mine.*

*Yes, Silessa.* He said obediently, revelling in it. She purred, nuzzling him and preening his crest again, affectionate.

Someone was approaching. Someone with red hair. Harry had told Sebastian that Charlie Weasley had been part of the dragon keeper squad that had brought the dragons for the Tourney (he couldn’t help but think ‘tourney’ instead of ‘tournament’, especially because ‘tourney’ was a lot easier for him to say), so this must be him. The chantelle was looking at him, but she wasn’t hissing.

‘Easy, Callie,’ Charlie was saying, moving very slowly. ‘Easy, old girl… Professor Rose, can you hear me?’

*Yes, I can.* Sebastian said, before realising Charlie would probably not be able to hear it. He wondered if he could use his vocal chords. He’d been trilling and had a sense that there was a birdlike mechanism, because he wasn’t breathing in-out he was breathing in and out at the same time. That was how birds breathed. Could he talk? He tried, made a few murmuring sounds, the kind parrots made, and then figured it out. It was all in the throat, really.

‘Yes.’ It even sounded macaw-ish—if macaws were ever the size of a small house, anyway.

Charlie drew back. Dumbledore and a few wizards Rose didn’t recognise, but who looked Suit-y, were slowly edging into the arena.

*I can protect you better than you can protect me, from these humans. Will you let me, Silessa?* He didn’t like the way the small group looked nervous, and had wands out. A nervous man with a gun was dangerous, and all.

Dumbledore, wearing magnificent ocean-blue today, had his hands folded, and looked serene, walking quietly and unthreateningly over to Charlie’s spot, and touching Charlie’s shoulder companionably for a moment.

*That one there, the blue one with white crest. He’s safe. He’ll protect us from those other ones over there.* Sebastian told her, watching Dumbledore give the dragon clear body language that he was not afraid, and that he was Charlie’s conspecific.

Her head swung over to the group of Suits. They stopped. *They’re dangerous.*

*They’re terrified of you.*

She raised her head, looking smug. *They should be.*

*I wish humans worked like that. But you know how they are. They kill things that scare them.*

*They kill beauty too. Like you.* She moved to put herself between them and him, swinging her tail up, swaying her hips warningly and hissing.

-

Charlie didn’t move. ‘Headmaster, you need to tell them to stop approaching, she knows what wands pointed at her looks like, and what it means. They’re making her nervous.’

Dumbledore trusted Charlie to keep an eye on the dragon before them, and turned to the group of Ministry officials and MLE Officers.

‘I believe it’s unnecessary for you to come closer, and in fact, it might be wise to back up.’

‘Have you made contact with Rose, sir,’ called out the senior officer.

‘We have,’ Charlie said, in a low voice. ‘He’s using the dragon’s voicebox to talk. Like a bloody parrot,’ he added the last in a mutter.

‘I heard that,’ Rose said. ‘The suits need to go. I’m fine.’

‘Do you have the egg?’ called one of the Suits.

‘My guy, I have _all_ the eggs.’

There was laughter from the audience in the stands.

‘The _golden_ egg.’

‘Probably,’ said Rose.

‘Probably?’

‘Were you watching the past however long this took? I was a little busy doing other things.’

The officers were herding the other Suits back, the chantelle—Callie? Had Charlie called her Callie?—following their every move with her orange eyes.

*Callie. Callie, I swear to you by all the stars, I will not let them hurt you.*

*You’re a _drake_ , that is not a drake thing to do. I protect you, you are mine.*

*I can protect myself, Silessa!* He couldn’t help the way his crest flared and he growled. She swung her head over to him, surprised. He raised his head.

*I can speak Human. Let me _talk_ to them, this doesn’t have to be a fight to the death. I don’t want them to hurt you, Silessa, please.* He nuzzled her. *Please, let me help. I don’t have to move, just let me talk to them before you flare and spit fire.*

She grunted, settling back on her haunches and then flopping onto her side. *You _are_ human.* She said, stunned. *But you know how to be a drake...*

*We’re good at learning.*

Her eyes dilated in a dragon’s laugh, and she rested her head on his belly, letting her crop warm the eggs inside. *Talk to the humans, then. I will watch and see how it is done.*

*I still need the shiny yellow egg your Friend gave you.*

She gave a low almost-growl that rumbled through him. * _My_ egg.*

‘Charlie gave her the egg, she won’t give it back because it was a present from a friend,’ Sebastian explained. ‘I feel that’s an entirely reasonable argument.’

‘We are not _negotiating_ with a _dragon_!’

‘The fuck you aren’t, and stop yelling at a pregnant person,’ Sebastian shot back at the Suit. ‘Charlie—it is Charlie, right? Ron told me about you.’

‘Yes.’ Charlie said. ‘She… she calls me her friend?’

‘That’s your name. Just Friend.’

Tears stung Charlie’s eyes. Dumbledore patted his shoulder gently.

‘So uh, I’m kind of stuck like this for a while,’ Sebastian went on. ‘And I have no intention of stressing out Silessa Callie, so uh, we’re done here. I lose this round, or whatever. Forfeit. Don’t care. Can we get everyone evacuated so Callie and I can… go into the woods or something and… find a more comfortable nest?’

‘I’ll do you one better,’ Charlie said, smiling and looking at Dumbledore. ‘That is, if you’ll help with… the human end of things?’

‘Oh, of course, dear boy,’ Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling behind his bland and pleasant tones. ‘I was only waiting for you to ask, as I am not, unfortunately, an expert on dragons.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> male dragons are called drakes (as are male ducks) and females are called chantelles (as are female partridges). like seahorses, their fertilisation schemes goes: chantelle lays unfertilised eggs in drake's egg-pouch, where they are fertilised and possibly have nutrients passed through the shell during incubation we're not sure. 
> 
> (yes, drake/chantelle is _also_ the naming scheme i use for cardassians, shhh)


	5. The Yule Ball

Dumbledore and the other judges conferred.

‘His talent must be taken into conzideration, of courze,’ Madame Maxime was the least ruffled of the judges, other than Dumbledore himself, who could never be ruffled by anything. ‘To be a polymorph, how rare. And you say you did not know, Dumbledore?’

‘Much of Professor Rose’s magical skills are unknown to me,’ Dumbledore said, ‘as I hired him for his skill in the arts.’

Karkaroff was scowling. ‘You are careless Headmaster then, _if_ you are telling truth,’ he said, eyes narrow.

‘I choose not to pry into the religious practises of my teachers, Igor,’ Dumbledore said gently. ‘Magic and religion are very deeply intertwined, for Sebastian.’

Karkaroff backed down, at that, though he was not a man who liked doing so. ‘You could have said,’ he muttered.

‘It explains why he had no reservations about attempting to _mate with a dragon,’_ Crouch was furious, but it had nothing other than moral outrage to hang on, and the thing about being a wizard, especially an English one, was that you didn’t really have a religion to pin moral outrage on, so you couldn’t really work into a good froth over it. ‘It’s… it’s indecent!’

‘He’s single-handedly revitalised an _entire species_ ,’ Charlie said, heated but not shouting. ‘Pardon my language, but _fuck_ indecency, this is _huge_! I’ve already owled Mr Scamander, he’ll probably be here by supper—’

‘Excuse me,’ came a soft voice from the entrance to the tent. They turned to see Draco, wrapped in a fur-collared coat against the cold. He was looking a little worried. ‘Does this mean the play is cancelled?’

‘No,’ Dumbledore said immediately. ‘The play is not cancelled.’

‘Casting was supposed to be announced tonight,’ Draco said. ‘Is that still happening?’

‘Yes, Draco,’ Dumbledore said kindly. ‘It may be some time before Professor Rose can hold rehearsals _indoors_ , but he is perfectly capable of teaching, I believe. I will be announcing casting.’

Draco cheered up a bit. ‘Good. Excellent.’ He left, and then came back, looking a little embarrassed. ‘Er, thank you, Headmaster.’

‘You’re quite welcome, Draco.’

-

‘It is, indeed, a very exciting time,’ Dumbledore opened his speech that night in the Great Hall. ‘Now, it is my pleasure to congratulate Viktor Krum on winning the first task!’

There was applause, but unfortunately Krum’s victory was overshadowed by the sheer spectacle of Professor Rose’s go at it, despite the abysmal score he received.

Krum minded this less than Karkaroff did.

‘As Professor Rose is indisposed,’ Dumbledore went on, after the applause had died down. ‘The announcements for the principals of our school production of Wicked. Now,’ Dumbledore said, to waylay the explosion of cheering. ‘Professor Rose has offered a note, before we begin—all gender roles shall be reversed, for reasons he has not made apparent to me, but you may ask him about when he returns to teaching.’

The mood in the Great Hall was quiet in a way it rarely was; no one dared to breathe.

‘The role of Elphaba will go to Draco Malfoy.’

Slytherin Table erupted in cheering.

‘The role of Galinda will go to Ron Weasley.’

Gryffindor table erupted in cheering. Harry, however, noticed that Ron looked completely shocked, even as congratulations went on all around him.

The other cast members were announced, but Harry didn’t really know any of them, couldn’t recognise their names. There was a _lot_ of cheering for each name, however, everyone seemed very excited to have any role at all, which Harry thought was nice.

‘Ron,’ Hermione said, ‘are you okay?’

‘Galinda?’ Ron said, weakly. ‘But… that’s a _girl_ role. It’s a _pink_ girl role.’

‘Boys can wear pink perfectly well, and there are shades of it that work wonderfully with red hair,’ Ginny said.

‘And you get to hate Draco Malfoy publicly, on stage, without getting in trouble,’ Hermione said cheerfully.

Ron did look cheered up by this. ‘Yeah, but… he gets to be _cool_.’

‘You’re a _starring role_ , Ron! Principal character! That means you’ll be famous, you know,’ Harry said. ‘You always wanted something like this, come on. None of your brothers ever got into the school production of anything.’

‘Yeah...’ Ron said, bucked up. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we did a school production every year?’ Neville said, excited. ‘Professor Rose says there’s a whole play about a rare venomous tentacula from outer space!’

‘Cool,’ Ginny said. ‘He said there’s a whole play about a mermaid with red hair, too.’

‘Oh yes, that’s the Little Mermaid, I know that one,’ Hermione said keenly. ‘I liked it very much. You’d be a grand Ariel, Ginny.’

‘That’s what _he_ said!’ she gushed. ‘But anyway, since I’m not in the play, I’ll have time for NaNoWriMo,’ she went on, fiercely. ‘I plan on winning, I want to get a meeting with a publisher! I wonder who put up the money for it.’

‘My mother,’ came a voice from behind them, that was a little less smug these days, if only because he was taking his vocal lessons in drama class very seriously, and no longer speaking through his nose. ‘She likes to support fiction in the magical world.’ He looked at Ron, gave a little nod. ‘We’ll be working together,’ he said, in a neutral sort of way.

‘Yeah,’ Ron said, wary and bristling already.

‘Heard you sing at auditions, you earned that role,’ Draco went on. ‘Congratulations.’

Ron narrowed his eyes at Draco, trying to determine if he was being sarcastic. ‘...Thanks,’ he said, suspiciously.

‘I thought for sure he’d give me Galinda because of my range,’ Draco went on. ‘Glad he didn’t, though.’

‘You look more like her.’

Draco shrugged. ‘Professor Rose doesn’t typecast. Sort of goes out of his way to do the opposite, doesn’t he? Anyway,’ he said, clearly as uncomfortable as Ron with the amount of civility, ‘Break a leg.’

‘Ron!’ Hermione said, holding Ron back from climbing over the table to throttle Draco as he walked away. ‘Ron, it’s a _theatre saying,_ he’s wishing you luck!’

-

Narcissa went down to the amphitheatre they had made the site of the First Task into ahead of rehearsal, because she no longer trusted Dumbledore to keep her son safe from large and dangerous animals, not after last year.

She found Charlie Weasley, Newt Scamander, a few other dragon-keepers, one of whom was named, Narcissa recalled, Lydia Souse… and both dragons. The female looked calm, all her spikes laid back, and Professor Rose looked… like himself, only more dragon-shaped. His belly was as plump as a seahorse’s.

‘Oh,’ he said, in a perfectly civil tone. ‘Hello, ma’am.’

‘Professor, I am Narcissa Malfoy. We’ve corresponded, about National Novel-Writing Month?’

‘Oh _Narcissa Malfoy_ , oh.’ His crest raised and he fluffed. ‘How _are_ you, Ma’am?’

She smiled politely. ‘I’m well, thank you, Professor. I wanted to ask if you felt confident you could keep Calligenia from attacking students. My son has previous bad experiences with magical creatures suddenly attacking him during class, and is understandably wary, but still very much wants to attend rehearsals.’

‘Oh jeez, no, I wasn’t planning on having Callie around for classes _or_ rehearsal, no. We’re, uh, we’re working on convincing her it’s safe to let me alone for the school day. Dumbledore should be here soonish, actually, he’s been in linguist mode.’

Narcissa was relieved to hear that this professor, at least, seemed to understand safety when it came to children.

Professor Rose was a beautiful creature, a dragon like Narcissa had never seen before, with _feathers_ that shimmered in the light with iridescence.

‘They’re _fasinatingly_ protective of drakes, it appears to be somewhat _cultural,’_ Newt said, excited to talk at anyone who stood still long enough. Narcissa, however, had been a fellow guest at parties with him before, and found him far more entertaining to listen to than most of the other sorts that ended up at said parties.

‘Cultural?’ she prompted, with polite—and, it must be said, genuine—curiosity.

‘Dragons are people,’ Charlie Weasley said simply. ‘Nobody knew before now, because nobody considered it, because,’ he was starting to sound deeply annoyed, ‘apparently it hasn’t occurred to wizards that people don’t always have human faces.’

‘I see,’ Narcissa said politely.

‘The really great thing,’ Lydia chimed in. ‘The magnificent thing, is that if dragons can talk, then they can _tell us things._ Callie’s been telling us all kinds of things about what makes a perfect nest, and why all dragons are female now. We can make a better go at caring for them if we can communicate.’

‘That’s true,’ Narcissa said politely. Professor Rose’s head lifted from the grass, focussing on something behind them with his large violet eyes.

‘Albus,’ he said.

‘Sebastian,’ Dumbledore said with a smile rather more genuinely pleased than his usual mild pleasure. ‘And Mrs Malfoy. I expect you were concerned for Draco?’

‘Yes,’ she said, a little less friendly to him. Of course, she wasn’t as unfriendly to him as her husband might have been, but she had less of a stake in politics. Her role was Draco’s Mother, before it was Lucius’ Wife, and both she and Lucius agreed upon that, it was one of the reasons they’d married.

‘We’re not putting the kids near Callie at all. Callie agrees. She’s too dangerous to be around babies right now,’ Rose said firmly.

‘And if you cannot leave Calligenia’s side?’ Narcissa asked, not wishing at all for Draco to lose his chance at such a role as Elphaba’s.

‘I will act as his proxy,’ Dumbledore said. ‘I have some little experience with theatre, from my travels; and Sebastian and I have similar teaching styles.’

‘The show must go on,’ Professor Rose said, fluffing his crest and the feathers on his cheeks.

-

Harry wondered what Professor Rose would have thought of all the decorations; he couldn’t recall what Professor Rose thought about Christmas, other than saying it was rather nice to not have to think about it too soon.

He wished he could have Professor Rose’s advice on asking a girl out; though… he tried to think about it, and realised… Professor Rose would have told him if girls were too hard, why not ask a boy?

‘Hey, Ron?’ Harry said, the moment it occurred to him—he was in the halls, both of them having ventured out to try and ask a girl.

‘Yeah?’

‘Will you go to the Yule Ball with me?’

Ron looked at him for a long time, and Harry felt far more nervous than he ever did with a girl.

‘Harry,’ he said, slowly, ‘you asking me… is that… because you want to go with me, or because girls are scary?’

‘I just… was thinking, what Professor Rose would say, if we asked him for advice. He’d say "why don’t you ask a boy you like, then" and… well, I never… really thought about you that way but… it’s like he said, best friends and boyfriends aren’t really too far apart, or shouldn’t be.’ Harry shrugged. ‘And honestly, I’d rather not have to take anybody, I’m nervous enough as it is; but if I have to take someone, I think… I’d rather take my best friend, than a stranger.’

‘People will… think we’re _together_.’

‘Is that bad?’ Harry challenged—himself, as much as Ron. Ron thought it over a bit. 

‘Well...’ he said, slowly. ‘Everyone knows Malfoy’s dad is a, um, whatsit. Bisexual. Both of his parents are. So _he_ can’t talk, really, it’s common in Pureblood families and all… and everyone knows Dumbledore and Professor Rose are, you know, uh, they flirt a lot. With each other _…_. So...’ He looked down at Harry’s hand, and grabbed it. ‘I guess not.  We can try it for real, anyway, and still be friends later if we don’t like the kissing bits.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry said, feeling a great weight lifted from his shoulders. He smiled. ‘Yeah, that sounds great.’

-

T he only class anyone paid attention in, after the Yule Ball was announced, was Theatre Arts.  Dumbledore filled in for Professor Rose for a few weeks after it became clear that Calligenia had no intention of letting Professor Rose out of her nest; and the cast and crew of the show found out Dumbledore was not only a very skilful wizard, but could play the piano, sing, dance, and act, himself. He also let the students take most of the control of the show,  which apparently was what Professor Rose had told him to do. He helped them learn to do what they wanted, but he wasn’t there to tell them what to do, only to mediate. 

It was strange, for most of the children, though the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws seemed to adapt best to it. As for the European students, they didn’t seem phased at all—then again, they were all upper years, none of them were younger than the single fifteen year old, who had only come because he had actually _snuck aboard the coach as a stowaway_. The rest of them were seventeen and older—apparently, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons had students in their early twenties.

Draco was intensely focussed; it was almost making him likeable, if only because now _he_ was the one impatiently telling his house-mates to stop wasting time insulting other students, there was _work_ to do.

Harry watched Ron grow. He was as devoted to the role as Draco, and that meant he had to find a way to get along with him—when Draco wasn’t insulting him, and with Dumbledore directing, it was like… well, magic. Maybe, Harry wondered, maybe _pretending_ to be friends would lead to being _actual_ friends. Wouldn’t _that_ be strange!

-

‘Listen, Weasley,’ Malfoy said in the wings after rehearsal one afternoon, then, somewhat haltingly, ‘Ron. Some of the extras had this idea that we’d all go in emerald green to the Ball. Everyone. Spread the word to Gryffindor Tower, will you?’

Ron didn’t need to be told why; Oz fever had struck the whole school—if you weren’t in the play, you were trying to be friends with someone who was. It was brilliant, being sought-after and famous, for his own merits! Ron never thought he was a terribly good singer—certainly not as good as Professor Rose seemed to think he was, and nowhere near Draco. But here he was, the starring role! Galinda! All the really smashingly _good_ , pretty, centre-of-attention songs were _his_! And yes, that was rather terrifying—but it was something very easy, standing there in wonderful clothes and singing, pretending to hate Malfoy, and all.

He thought of his horrible dress robes, and something in his face must have told Malfoy everything; but Ron braced for an insult that never came.

‘Right, well, we’re all having a workshop in the Great Hall after classes. Everyone who’s going to the Yule Ball. Bring the pride.’

Unlike many teachers, Professor Rose called the houses by fond nicknames: the pride was Gryffindor, as they were lions. Ron didn’t miss that Draco was purposely using the name, maybe as an olive branch.

‘Er, alright,’ he said.

-

‘Well, if he tries anything, we’ll brain him, how’s that, Ron?’ Fred said, when Ron told the Common Room about Malfoy’s proposal.

‘Logically,’ said Parvati, ‘there’s no reason for him to invite you all, if he's planning _that_. He knows we’d all die for each other. We’re Gryffindors, that’s what we do.’

No one had anything to really say to that, so the students attending the Yule Ball went down to the Great Hall after classes, and brought their dress robes with them, to find that the tables were covered in emerald green fabric of various kinds, and spangles, ribbons, and all manner of pincushions and shears.

Bustling around, taking measurements, altering robes with subtle wandwork were another pair of twins, with a fall of shining black hair, and the overall feel of a pair of very sleek cats that may or may not have been otherworldly—but Harry got that impression from a lot of wizards, that they were something vaguely fey. These must be tailors of some sort, probably friends of Dumbledore’s.

Dumbledore was up at the High Table, with a stack of letters, blank parchment, and a line of patient owls. He was dressed rather quietly, for him, in robes of deepest green shot with emerald, the lenses of his half-moon spectacles tinted green, too. Harry smiled, at that.

‘What _is_ all this?’ Ron said, looking around in wonder. There were students helping other students, sewing ribbons or spangles. There was scattered singing. One of the twins came over to greet them, bowing.

‘Welcome, Gryffindors.’

‘Who are you?’ Harry asked, curious.

‘Sigi,’ he said, bowing. ‘Heike and I work under Master Calamity Secoh.’

Harry wondered who Master Calamity Secoh was, but probably a high fashion tailor, and had fun as best he could. They were very pretty, these twin assistants, and seemed of one mind even more than Fred and George.

-

An hour into the Yule Ball, Professor Rose, without warning, made his return. He was in his usual pink, but wearing some kind of fabric that glimmered in a rainbow over it, layers and layers of sparkling, floaty chiffon, and his face was done up extremely… well, extremely. His hair was also very tall in an updo, and his nails were long and glittering. He looked just like the dragon version of himself, claws and crest and all.

And it was very definitely a dress that he was wearing. A gown, with a long train and a bustle and… it looked very pretty, Harry thought, and it was rather clever that he’d parted the skirts in front to show his legs in trousers of the same stuff as the skirts.

Sebastian finally finished re-connecting with the kids, and moved on to the adults properly. First, of course, he sashayed up to Albus and kissed him—the heels he was wearing gave him enough height to do so.

Albus held the kiss, and Sebastian relaxed into it. There were whistles from the students, and in reply, Dumbledore cast a wordless Featherlight Charm and dipped Sebastian, who cooperated marvellously, and seemed to bask in the cheering this caused.

‘Are you well?’ Dumbledore asked, very softly, when they came up for air, and he’d pulled Sebastian back up. ‘You seem giddy.’

‘I’m high as a kite on endorphins, but I’m not addled,’ Sebastian said, still breathless from the kiss, eyes sparkling. ‘The laying went well. I’m starving, I want to eat an entire table, and I want to fuck everyone, and I want to fly.’

Dumbledore chuckled. ‘You look breathtaking.’

‘I almost did full tits-out drag, to be honest,’ Sebastian said, letting Dumbledore lead him to one of the circular tables to sit down, offering him a glass of cool water. ‘I did the makeup, at least, but I couldn’t bear having tits again, even fake ones.’

‘You look like yourself,’ Dumbledore said, and dared to reach out a fingertip to trace along the sweetheart neckline, which was very low. This close, it was obvious that Sebastian was corseted, beneath that well-fitted bodice. ‘When did you go out and have this made?’

‘Oh, Narcissa helped me order it. She has this marvellous tailor in Knockturn, a vampire by the name of Calamity Secoh? Mrs Malfoy and I have been _corresponding,_ you know. Lovely woman.’

Sebastian put a hand softly on Dumbledore’s arm in emphasis, as he spoke, and in general seemed much more… gay. Dumbledore wanted to ask why, and how, and whether this was Sebastian or whether he was hiding something by being this. Or, perhaps, this was simply an effect of drag. Drag was like that. Perhaps Sebastian was merely taking the opportunity—he _was_ a Slytherin—to reinvent himself, slightly, and reveal new layers. Slytherins were rarely so dramatic, however.

The Malfoys had marked Sebastian as Pureblooded. Dumbledore had been afraid that would happen. The subject rarely came up, and when it did, Sebastian merely listened, looking to all intents and purposes simply _curious_ about it, watching arguments like a tennis match. It was impossible to know what _he_ thought on the matter, he only ever asked questions when it came to politics, and nobody asked his opinion.

‘What do you know of the Boy Who Lived, Professor?’

‘That he’s some kinda miracle baby that survived some damn thing, I don’t care, really,’ Sebastian said, sipping his drink from a straw helpfully provided by the house elves, who were very detail-oriented about that sort of thing. ‘Blah blah the war blah blah Sauron something something everyone wants him to be a cult leader or Jesus or something.’

Dumbledore chuckled, despite trying to stay serious. ‘The Malfoys were militant supporters of the Dark Lord, before his defeat.’

Sebastian shrugged. ‘I have no opinion because I have no data. It’s still compiling.’ He looked at Dumbledore. ‘Feel free to fill me in, but later, because we’re at a ball, and you need to dance with me, Daddy. I’ve _missed_ you,’ he said, voice and gaze suddenly heated, as he set down his empty glass.

Dumbledore obliged him, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. ‘Now is not the time.’ But hopefully he’d planted the seed of caution.

They danced, and Dumbledore enjoyed taking the lead, as he always did; but with someone graceful and yet who didn’t know the dance, it was more pleasant. He distracted Sebastian from worrying about his feet (and therefore tripping himself up) the way he hadn’t been able to distract someone for a long time.

‘You enjoyed it, didn’t you?’ he murmured softly, pleased that he had someone who could appreciate his voice going heated, and his blue eyes flashing rather than twinkling.

‘ _Gods_ yes, and I’m glad you know that,’ Sebastian said, relieved but quickly purring right back. ‘I was orgasming the _whole time_ I am high as a _kite_ right now...’

‘Shall I take that to mean you feel _empty_ , then?’

Sebastian’s eyes dilated, the only sign of his blush. He raised a brow—something which Dumbledore had missed the sight of. ‘Are you offering?’ he said in a husky voice.

‘I rather think I am.’

But it was not to be, for after the dance was over, everyone wanted a little of Professor Rose’s time, now that he was back in human shape. And everyone had questions.

‘Dessert first! Dessert, no, I won’t have _any_ Q-and-A until _after_ dessert, darlings, I simply _couldn’t_. Where are my stars? Elphaba, Galinda, come here, sit by me, tell me how rehearsals are going.’

But he didn’t tell them anything about being a dragon, Harry noted with some amusement; he asked all about them, about the show, about what everyone had been up to while he’d been gone—but he spoke not a syllable on his experiences in the forest.

He couldn’t, of course, Sebastian thought wryly, as he kept up his fluttering persona with ease that surprised him. He couldn’t tell them that being a dragon fulfilled several fantasies; that he’d been in such a haze of orgasmic pleasure and arousal that it had eventually been impossible to carry on and he’d just had to give up and submit, and he’d _loved it;_ that he’d happily let Charlie pamper him, and treat him like a dumb beast, because honestly, he’d been so high on endorphins he kind of had been. None of that was, of course, appropriate for a schoolteacher to tell his students.

-

The school paper was full of stories about the Yule Ball, and the Prophet was still eagerly anticipating the production of _Wicked,_ and Professor Rose’s dramatic and mysterious re-entry into the school occupied most of the paper for weeks.

Rita Skeeter’s huge revelation about Hagrid barely made it to page six, shoved after the press release and cast list for the musical, and right before an advert for Arlington Cattery.


	6. The Second Task

 

They were no closer to answering the egg’s riddle, being that they didn’t have an egg; but this didn’t seem to worry Professor Rose at all. He just kept reading books in his spare time, between classes and helping various of the backstage crew with costume designs, sets, and lighting. The show being in production gave everyone something to focus on that had nothing to do with the Tournament, and friendships were already forming.

The day of the Second Task quite snuck up on them, really; but Professor Rose was there with everyone else.

‘How did you know?’ Harry asked, on the docks.

‘I just watched where the stands were being put up,’ Professor Rose said, grinning down at him. Harry wasn’t dressed to swim, but Professor Rose was in a long-sleeved, long-legged wetsuit with bold neon stripes, and stitch-lines that reflected the weak winter sunlight. His hair was tucked under a hood, and he looked very different without makeup—or glasses—on. He wore soft boots of the same stuff as the wetsuit, and gloves as well.

‘What are you trying to look like?’ Harry had asked.

‘It’s dazzle camouflage. Fish use it all the time. It breaks up the outline and messes up perspective. It’s _also_ warning colouration for how poisonous I am,’ Professor Rose added cheerfully. ‘Now you take my phone, Harry, I’ve got a gopro attached to me and the feed will be live.’

Harry only vaguely knew what this meant—Dudley had a broken Gopro in the spare room—but Professor Rose showed Harry which of the buttons to tap and tested the feed on the dock, while Ludo Bagman announced the Task. Harry hurried away just in time for the countdown, and the other champtions jumped into the lake, but Professor Rose took a deep breath, sat down on the edge of the dock, closed his eyes, and… nothing happened for a few moments.

And then something _horrible_ began to happen.

-

Sebastian had a mixed set of feelings about oceanic dolphins, but not about river dolphins. He had briefly thought about an alligator, but if he needed to be underwater, an alligator would quickly become a liability. Yet he couldn’t indulge his love of prehistoric creatures, and become a koolasuchus, for that too, was a creature of the water’s _surface_. Instead, he would become a boto.

This would be horrific for onlookers, of course, because it was not going to be pretty. The only way Professor Rose knew how to shapeshift was the way described in graphic detail in a book series he’d loved as a child. A book series that purposely made the change graphic, grotesque, and as disgusting as possible—he’d never really been sure why. But it was why he sat at the edge of the dock, and focussed first on the tail, and the lungs, and the blubber. River dolphins were from the tropics, but he could manage something sort of like a river dolphin and a beluga.

He took as deep a breath as he possibly could, and held it.

He saw the blubber encase his flesh, but he more _felt_ the lack of cold, the comfort, as his eyes were fast becoming useless. The last thing he saw with them was his mouth jutting forward into a long thin beak full of conical teeth, and then he was tipping forward into the water, his arms shrunk too far into his sides to catch him, so he had a few moments of horrified and very human fear before he hit the water and began to sink. He felt his nose flatten and move upward, becoming more muscular; his ears flattened and closed completely, and his forehead bulged forward instead. He felt his legs and torso finish smoothing out into the plump cigar shape and kicked his tail, surfacing enough to blow out and then take in another breath, deeper, and dive.

The dolphin’s brain knew how to use its senses, and clicked out sonar as soon as Sebastian felt the desire to see around himself. He whistled, swimming toward the middle of the lake. Another reason to take the dolphin’s form was that the other champions would not see him as a threat, but a friend, should he encounter them.

He started to hear something else in the water, other than the echoes bouncing weirdly off the lake floor.

_An hour long you’ll have to look  
And to recover what we took_

Was that merpeople? That was definitely probably merpeople. Merpeople! Sebastian had avoided turning into one simply because if they really existed, they were people, and Sebastian was not okay with cultural appropriation of another species. He followed the sound across the water, and found he needed to surface soon; he angled up, and took another breath, before swimming back down, which gave him a better "view", his sonar using the definite backdrop of the lakebed. On the floor, at the castle-side of the lake, was a village of merrows. At the centre was the source of the singing. Another breath, and he dove downward, whistling again.

He circled the statue where he saw human shapes in his sonar, and whistled, experimenting with his vocalisations now, chirping as he circled, not understanding. The merrows lowered spears at him. He screamed angrily at them, and made himself a little bigger, just because the had spears and he wanted to have bigger teeth to deal with them….

The spears raised. ‘Champion?’ one of them said. Sebastian nodded as only a river dolphin could. They left him alone then. Sebastian looked closely at all four humans, as close as one could get with sonar, and went for the youngest one first. They didn’t stop him, and he aimed true at the weed tying the child to the statue. Four hostages, four champions, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take as many as he could….

When he bit through the weed, he immediately started on the next one, only to find hands—not spears, but hands—trying to pull him back. He _screamed_ , kicking his tail and growing even bigger in retaliation, flashing bioluminescence and colours along skin in warning. The merrows scattered in fear, like most fish not wanting to touch something brightly-coloured for fear of poison. Shifting an octopus-like arm from his side, Sebastian held on to the child’s tether himself, and materialised more arms, and a claw, to help himself cut through the weed on the other statues.

By the time he got through one, he sensed other clumsy swimmers in the water—the other champions. He didn’t risk thought-speech, merely waiting. Another clumsy shape, but half shark and half legs. Who it was he didn’t know, but two people hacking at the weeds of the remaining two was enough. Sebastian started to swim for the surface, just as he was running out of air. He took a breath and then stayed just under the water, picking up speed now, and breaching regularly to maintain it, both hostages suddenly waking and starting to thrash, slowing him down. He stopped, still a long way from the dock, and let go of their tethers, though it risked losing them. But the water was calm, and he looked like a dolphin. A friend-shape, warm and with two willing fins to hold onto. He could swim slower.

They held on instinctively, and he kept them above water, swimming for the dock and chirping at them to keep their spirits up. He felt the merrows following, but keeping their distance.

-

Again, he’d Transfigured himself _again,_ McGonagall thought, the only one not having to look away as she watched Rose, slowly, turn into a pale dolphin while falling into the water. There were tentative cheers at the sight of his spout, and his tail, but after that was simply silence—except, McGonagall noted, for a corner of Gryffindor’s section of the stands, where the entire House was trying to cluster around Harry Potter, who was holding something in his hands. Something that glowed, faintly.

Dumbledore leaned over. ‘I believe they might have more of a view of what’s going on than we do.’

‘Really?’ she said, her mouth in a wry twist on one side. ‘And how would you know that?’

‘Ah, I’m told smartphones can do a great many things, and muggle cameras are now waterproof and very, very small.’

‘It’s right there!’ someone yelled. ‘It’s right there! Why can’t you see it?’

‘My, this is exciting,’ Dumbledore said, ‘one wishes to be over there, watching it.’

‘I don’t suppose you could let us all watch it?’

‘One does not touch another man’s smartphone, I’m told. It’s like touching someone’s wand.’

‘Oh, my nephew’s husband has a smartphone!’ Filius said, as he started a new row of stitches (like Sprout, he always had yarn with him—but he crocheted, he didn’t knit). ‘Muggles have gotten so clever, they have _spells_ now—they call them _apps._ Quite fascinating, the only thing they can’t do is portkeys.’

McGonagall knew Sinistra would chime in soon, and the three-way conversation about muggle technology’s progress would occupy the rest of the time, even if she didn’t participate much in it.

And then something white and much larger than what had gone down came _up_ , surrounded by merpeople. It glowed blue and twinkling in the weak February sunlight, and in the murk, and was going rather fast. It stopped, and began, slower, with two passengers, one holding to either pectoral fin.

‘He shifted _underwater,’_ McGonagall murmured, feeling at once furious and almost aroused—academically, of course.

‘ ‘e saved _two_ ‘ostages,’ Madame Maxime noted, brows raised.

‘And manages to produce hideous levels of tasteless showing off no matter _what_ shape he’s in,’ Snape sneered, thoroughly enjoying it. ‘Whatever it _is_ ,’ he added, as the shape got closer. Hands were pulling up Ron Weasley and Gabrielle Delacour, onto the dock, and Rose was left in the water, changing back into himself, pulling himself onto the dock and raising his hands with a huge smile that one could probably see from space. The stands exploded with cheers.

‘Our first champion back! Sebastian Rose, what an _extraordinary_ bit of Transfiguration you displayed, on the docks there! Oh, and it seems some of the mer-people have followed you...’

Dumbledore was already kneeling on the dock, one of the merpeople chatting at him.

‘I’m sure you want a soundbyte, but Albus is being much more interesting just now...’ Sebastian said in a distracted voice to Bagman, going over to sit on the dock near Dumbledore, listening and watching intently to the conversation he didn’t understand. The facial expressions were even different, but it made sense that expressions would mean something different underwater, to fish. And merrows were, above all things, human-shaped fish, not fish-shaped humans.

The little girl came to sit beside him, wrapped in a magically-warmed blanket now, watching quietly with him, her legs tucked up to her chest. He put an arm around her shoulders after a moment. They didn’t say anything to one another. They didn’t need to.

The water broke, and the other champions returned, but Sebastian didn’t really have much attention for them.

Dumbledore could speak Mermish.

Merrows were real.

He’d done freeform shapeshifting, putting all those years studying the ocean to use how he’d always wanted.

_Merrows were real and Dumbledore could speak Mermish_ .

‘How are you so _unfairly_ sexy,’ he said dreamily, not really caring who heard, at this point; they’d always been rather careful, before, not to be _too_ flirtatious in public. Sebastian didn’t like this much, though he agreed it was politic to play the part of simply being two witty colleagues who both happened to enjoy flirting; and he and Dumbledore found it easy, since they were both so busy and Sebastian ate meals with the students—and, lately, in the theatre while directing or advising. So, that comment was the most blatant they’d been.

The giggle at his left side snapped him out of it; he looked down to see the little girl who had Fleur’s silvery blonde hair giggling at him. 

‘Are you Professeur Rose?’ she asked, in a thicker accent than her sister’s.

‘Gabrielle! Oh, Professeur, merci! Grand merci!’ Fleur fell upon her sister weeping, holding her tightly while Gabrielle protested (likely because, in the time she’d been in the blanket, she’d gotten dry, and Fleur was still soaking wet). 

‘De rien,’ Sebastian said.

‘It was ze grindylows,’ she said, still husky from crying. Sebastian noticed she was covered in cuts and bruises, though the former had stopped bleeding. ‘Zey attacked me… oh, Gabrielle… I szought….’

‘Hey, hey,’ Sebastian said, putting an arm around Fleur too. ‘Don’t go down that road. Be present. You are here, it is now. Gabrielle is here, she’s safe, everything’s okay.’

‘I—yes.’ Fleur said, taking a deep breath. Gabrielle said something grumpy in French, and Fleur managed to laugh a little—it was brittle, but it was real. She swept her wand over herself and her sister, drying them in a blast of warmth. After a second thought, she dried Ron and Sebastian too, and kissed him on both cheeks. He hugged her and Gabrielle in response, and turned to Ron.

‘You okay, honey?’

‘Yeah,’ Ron said, a little sullenly. ‘Why’d you go and save her for?’

‘Because she’s the youngest, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do, so I defaulted to saving the youngest person, and then as many people as possible. Ron, you’re a Gryffindor, I’m surprised at you, "why’d you go and save her for"? I’m a _Slytherin_.’

‘All right,’ Ron said, smiling despite himself. He was aware by now of the belief that a lot of the adults had, that Professor Rose was a Slytherin—Snape, however, _hated it_. Which made it quite all right, in Ron’s opinion.

‘Professor!’ Cedric said, coming over to him, a Ravenclaw with black hair wrapped in a blanket next to him. Without signature styles of makeup, accessories, or styles of dress, Sebastian was completely unable to recognise her. ‘Professor, your Transfiguation was amazing...’

‘It vas unprecedented,’ Krum said, catching up.

‘One might say a little too easily done,’ Karkaroff said, eyes narrowed. The judges had caught up.

Sebastian weighed his options, and decided to go with,

‘What?’ he said, washing away all traces of the English accent he’d been slowly acquiring. Now he fried his voice in the back of his throat and inserted a malibu bubblegum-snap to the vowels, and channelled his inner bimbo goddess. ‘like it’s hard?’

(The Prophet would later go on to quote him on that, and extrapolate that he was, as he carefully tried to be, an idiot savant of a polymorph, who didn’t actually _know_ much—how much could someone who taught singing and dancing know—but the muggle population understood the reference—and the implied insult that came with it.)


	7. Chapter 7

Rehearsals got more intense after the Second Task, and singing could be heard in the halls most days. Some classes broke out into spontaneous musical numbers while working (notably, classes with a lot of manual work, like Herbology and Potions).

No one was happier with this than the students that were fans of musicals generally. It wasn’t just spontaneous outbursts of, ‘ _No one mourns the wicked!’_ and _‘Dancing through life!’_ that echoed through the corridors and classrooms, now. There was a fair bit of _‘And all that jazz!’_ and ‘ _Do you hear the people sing!’_ and _‘I’m not throwing away my shot!’_ as well.

Sebastian loved it. It reminded him of high school, when he’d gone to an arts school right around the time both Chicago and Wicked were coming out for the first time, and cultural mores of the student body allowed one to burst into song while walking to class (and have others join you, sometimes).

They’d started rehearsing the whole production, and then dress rehearsal came, and the students proved very adaptable to the inevitable disasters. And then—then! Opening night. The theatre was packed, and everyone’s parents and families filled the seats. Tickets were sold, and all proceeds went toward Callie’s Hoard, which Dumbledore had helped Charlie and Sebastian found jointly, that was working on proving dragons were beings and having them legally recognised as same, as well as documenting all the things they’d managed to learn so far from Calligenia, and supporting her brood of twenty-six draclings, half of whom were male.

The full story of the musical was going to hit like a freight train. Professor Rose had sworn the entire cast to secrecy, playing on the students’ delight in keeping secrets from their parents. He hadn’t fully expected it to be successful—that was a lot of people to trust—but somehow, the word had remained mum.

He did not come out to make a speech before the show. He hated that sort of thing, it was embarrassing and twee. So, the overture simply started, the curtain came up, and the show began.

Everyone was splendid. The crowd was deeply engaged from the first note, and while Sebastian wasn’t used to exactly _when_ people clapped, during a musical (surprisingly: when you first saw each main character. Unsurprisingly: after every musical number), he got used to it.

-

## First School Musical a Wicked Success!

_Professor Sebastian Rose, of Hogwarts’ new Theatre Arts class, has, perhaps, succeeded where others have failed, in bringing together European wizards and witches and giving us a heart-to-heart on why it’s important to stick together, make friends despite our differences, and learn from one another. Putting on a show that includes a cast from three magical schools, Professor Rose gave us a tragedy that nonetheless leaves you feeling there is, at last, hope, even when hope is lost; and that nothing and nobody is quite as black-and-white as it seems at a glance. Lead by two of Hogwarts’ own fourth years that have amazing chemistry and skill for their age, the show’s setting is peopled with colourful characters that live in a world almost—but not entirely like—our own, the far-off land of Oz._

_Most notable for sheer spectacle is the number that introduces the Emerald City, but it would be vapid to say this is the best number of the show, for the two leads—Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy—really steal the show whenever they are both on stage. Their duets are crackling with tension, or ache with pain and star-crossed friendship. Though none of the cast are older than twenty-one, the show has a professionalism that is admirable, and leaves one hoping for another production for the next school year._

_Perhaps the laissez-faire attitude Rose displays toward the Triwizard Tournament is merely because his passion lies, quite obviously, elsewhere. ~_

The review was in the _Daily Prophet_ , and Sebastian stared at it, stunned. He hadn’t even known a critic was in the audience! But the next night, the crowd was bigger, and this time not just parents, and the donations were above just ticket sales and into actual cheques. People were coming in from all over the magical world, not just Europe but farther afield.

And then Draco and Ron decided to switch roles on him; his heart leapt to his throat when he saw Draco step on stage with Galinda’s dress, but oh! His _voice!_ Sebastian had declined to formally cast him as Galinda, well-knowing the connotations and the history of both family lines (despite playing the naif, he’d learned very well all about blood supremacy), not wanting to have others see them as typecast to fictional personas of themselves; but knowing the two boys had arranged to swap _without his input_ , Sebastian could enjoy how _well_ it worked—Draco’s etheral and crystalline soprano was made for Galinda’s notes, and Ron’s scrappy broadway belt was absolutely a match for Elphaba. And they were having _fun_ , that was the important thing. They were having _fun_ , and they’d become _friends,_ and that was all he’d really _wanted_.

Demand was so high there was call to extend the run, but Sebastian was strict about it—these were children, they had school.

On the last night, Sebastian found himself pulled on stage by Ron and Draco. ‘Come on!’ Ron said.

‘You’ve got to bow too, come on,’ Draco said briskly, and there were cheers as Sebastian went on stage, joining hands with the actors and bowing to the audience. Sebastian looked at the conductor, motioned for silence. He spoke, the acoustics of the theatre—and the Charms in the architecture, meant to carry sound to every audience member—making it unnecessary to amplify his voice.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you to everyone who has come to see the show.’ He kissed the audience, held out his hands to them. ‘It is our privilege to entertain, and without an audience, there would be no show. Thank you for coming, thank you for continuing to come and see.’ He dropped his hands, turned more serious.

‘I know a lot of people credit me with this show, and I want to set the record straight—I am not the stage manager. I did not design the coreography, these wonderful sets, or any of the myriad details that make this show what it is. That credit belongs to the students backstage, the ones who wear black and keep the lights on and the props in order, the hair done and the makeup perfect—the stagehands. Please, let’s show our backstage crew some appreciation!’

He applauded, and the actors on stage with him did too, and the audience followed; but Sebastian didn’t make the crew come on stage—they’d chosen to be crew for a reason.

‘Next, I want to thank everyone who bought tickets and made donations to Callie’s Hoard. We’ve raised an amazing amount of money for dragon welfare and conservation; and on behalf of her and her draclings, thank you. Dragons need us to _listen_ , now that we know they have something to _say,_ and Callie’s Hoard will continue to work on Dragon-human communication research, and a brighter future between dragons and wixen. Your donations—your ticket prices—have helped that research get a head start. Thank you.’ He applauded them again.

‘Lastly, I want to thank all of the kids in my class!’ He turned to either side, a little choked up at this point, but carrying on. ‘Y’all are just—I’m so proud of all of you! You’ve been—making friends and—I’ve seen.’ He put his hands up to his face, trying to get his breathing together so he could keep talking. ‘I’ve seen enemies become friends, here. I’ve seen people go across language barriers. I’ve seen a _family—_ come together—and—really, that’s—that’s what theatre is _about_. Parents, you shouldn’t _just_ be proud of your kid being on stage, saying their lines and singing their songs—also be proud of them for pulling together, helping each other. They’ve really just—just come together, and—I’m so proud of them!’ He laugh-sobbed, and hugged Ron and Draco, the nearest kids. And then it became a pile of kids, all his actors joining the hug, and the house was ringing to bring itself down, a standing ovation.

-

Professor Rose ate with Harry the night they were supposed to meet Ludo Bagman, inviting him to his classroom to do so. Harry came, and they sat in Professor Rose’s office and ate something amazing involving chicken and pasta.

‘Professor,’ Harry said, as he took a second helping. ‘I have a question.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, since the Yule Ball, you’ve been… er. Different.’ Harry wondered if it was due to something about being a dragon for so long.

‘Oh, the drag queen thing?’ Sebastian knew this was coming. ‘Yeah, being a dragon for a while…’ he trailed off. ‘I um, I watched a lot of youtube. Do you know about RuPaul’s Drag Race?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t… really know a lot of muggle stuff. My relatives don’t really let me watch… that sort of thing.’ Harry could only imagine what the Dursleys would say about men wearing makeup and dresses.

‘Oh, _bitch_ ,’ Sebastian said in a sympathetic tone, without thinking. He covered his mouth. ‘Oh jesus, sorry. You got me in drag mode. That was _not_ an insult.’

But Harry was laughing. ‘It’s fine,’ he managed, between giggles.

‘Are you curious about drag?’ Sebastian asked, not sure how to navigate being supportive of a fourteen year old that might have conservative asshole relatives.

‘I dunno,’ Harry said, thoughtfully. ‘Maybe. Everyone seems so… brave… with their stage makeup and costumes on,’ he said, quietly.

‘It’s war paint,’ Sebastian said, gesturing. ‘It’s a mask of something else, you become larger than life; you can do anything with drag on. Drag Queens are never scared, or nervous about being too loud, or worried about how they look in that dress. They know they’re fabulous, and nothing can change that. It’s… why I dress and makeup before every Task. Why I did it for the Yule Ball. I was scared. I wanted to feel brave.’

Sebastian let the silence lie, going over and cutting the pink cake he’d ordered from the kitchens a few days ago, and the huge bowl of halved strawberries that had come up with dinner. He put a slice on a plate and pushed it over to Harry, before making the same for himself. He put the strawberries between them, and started to eat.

‘What’s the cake for?’ Harry asked. It was a really fancy pink cake with pink roses on it, and Professor Rose had it in a crystal cake stand on his desk. It looked like one of the ones Aunt Petunia’s magazines had on the cover.

‘Because I wanted one,’ Professor Rose answered; and it was so simple and so profound that Harry was silent for a bit. Because he’d wanted one. Cake was one of those things you grew up thinking could only be eaten on special occasions. Even the Dursleys didn’t eat cake ‘because I wanted one'!

Professor Rose just said things like this. Often.

‘Do you want me to do makeup on you for the Third Task?’ Professor Rose asked. ‘We can watch some videos of other queens and you can pick out what kind of look you want.’

Harry thought about this too, but he said, without really knowing why, ‘No, that’s okay.’

They went down to the Quidditch pitch together.

-

‘Now, the champions who are leading on—’

Professor Rose screamed, interrupting Bagman. It wasn’t exactly a scream of fear, and Harry had heard it before, as had Krum (Fleur and Cedric weren’t part of Theatre Arts class).

‘It’s a _dungeon crawl!’_ he said, jumping up and down. ‘First dragons, then merrows, now a _dungeon crawl was this tourney_ _ **designed**_ _for me specifically!’_

‘Er...’ Bagman should have been used to Professor Rose by now, but, Harry observed, miraculously, he was not. ‘As I was saying, the champions who are leading in points will get a head start into the maze.’ Bagman grinned at Cedric. ‘And then Mr Krum will enter… then Miss Delacour… Then you, Harry.’

‘Don’t you mean, and then Professor Rose, Mr Bagman?’ Harry asked cheerfully. He liked how Professor Rose seemed so genuinely excited to do the Third Task. He was truly having _fun_ doing these, even though he wasn’t really trying to win. Then again, maybe not trying to win was _why_ he was able to have so much fun. ‘I haven’t done any of the Tasks, why would I do this one?’ 

People did this. They kept trying to give him the credit for Professor Rose’s work. They didn’t seem to want to talk to him—then again, Professor Rose always seemed mysteriously absent when the press was nearby, and shrugged off Bagman’s repeated attempts to engage him in conversation after a Task. Harry, however, wasn’t nearly so clever as all that, being that he was only fourteen and not a Slytherin. 

‘I mean, I think of all the Tasks, a dungeon crawl would probably be Harry’s speed,’ Professor Rose said, and then added, in a theatrical aside, ‘I’ve heard things about you,’ in a throaty voice, the one he always used for asides. Harry hid a laugh, but was very flattered—and, really, he agreed. A maze full of monsters and magical obstacles sounded sort of fun, when Voldemort wasn’t at the other end.


	8. The Third Task

Harry had admitted to Professor Rose that he was, indeed, interested in 'the drag queen thing'; immediately, and to Harry's surprise, Professor Rose had pulled him for ‘Third Task-related studying’ (that’s what he told Hermione and Ron; really they just sat up in Professor Rose’s office and watched youtube clips of drag queens Professor Rose liked) and had fallen in love with not Drag Race but Dragula, and Professor Rose had done Harry’s makeup to ‘intimidate your enemies, because a witch needs to walk through the woods and _know_ that _she_ is the scariest thing in them’.

Harry had practised with Professor Rose, and while he’d felt silly, the aggressive encouragement and support had eventually blown through all of that, and for the first time, Harry actually felt comfortable being the centre of attention. Professor Rose was bright—neon, really—but had encouraged Harry to embrace skulls and snakes and scary things. If Harry liked them, if they meant something to him, if embracing that he survived a death-curse by having a drag persona that was a zombie helped him feel powerful, then he should do that. So, Harry was Mary Death, dressed in sequined black and tatters, his hair sprayed into a purposeful mess and his face shadowed and hollowed.

He was proud that he’d managed to encourage Professor Rose to be a bit more of himself, enough to tell Harry _his_ drag name, which was Sabina the Teenage Bitch ('not perfect, but I was angry and fifteen at the time I created it, and now it's stuck'). Tonight, next to Harry, Professor Rose had wanted to coordinate, so he had worn similarly spooky clothes. They couldn’t be as glamorous as a usual drag queen of course—no sky-high heels tonight—but the kinds of dark and spooky things that Professor Rose liked were flashy villains from Gotham and Disney. He was in a black bodysuit with a neon snake wrapping around one leg and up his torso and down one arm. It was the kind of neon that glowed in the dark, as was the makeup on his face, and his hair. He looked cool, but still kind of scary too, Harry thought.

Bagman sort of stared at them a little, when they came out onto the field; but Professor Rose stared right back, and looked down at Harry from beneath lowered false eyelashes.

‘Clearly, the man has never seen beautiful monsters before, Mary Death,’ he said, and Harry grinned, showing the points they’d Charmed his teeth into, feeling the slightly sticky feeling of the fake blood they’d put on his scar and let drip down his face.

‘A pity,’ Harry said. ‘Shall we take our evening stroll through the cemetary, then?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rose said, looking at Bagman. ‘Are you going to let us into the maze?’

‘A-ah. Right. Er, on my mark, then. Three… two…’

It was supremely easy to walk past him and to the edge of the dark, and then walk right in together. The sound of the crowd—and the commentary from Bagman—was swallowed up instantly, so much so it had to have been Charmed that way. Harry was supremely grateful; his only nerves had been what Bagman would say about how they looked, that this would be used as more evidence against his sanity or something. But without the commentary, he was safe, and could just walk beside Professor Rose, his wand in his hand, Professor Rose’s hand in his other hand. Professor Rose held his staff—being that he was left-handed, and Harry right-handed, this was completely possible to do without putting themselves at risk.

Professor Rose had discussed with him the various mathematical tactics you could use to solve a maze, and they’d looked it up using his phone as well—which felt like cheating, except it would have been the same information they could have found in a library, too. Unfortunately, most of the mathematical solutions focussed on getting _out_ of mazes, not into the centre of them.

Still, there was also, as Professor Rose called it, the Front Door Method—so called because ‘nobody expects you to sneak in the front door’. The way Professor Rose was eyeing the hedges, now, alerted Harry to the fact that he was seriously thinking about scaling them.

‘If we climbed the hedges, would that be cheating?’ he mused. ‘Dumbledore wouldn’t think it was cheating,’ he answered himself.

‘The other judges would, though.’

‘We could also go _through_ the hedges, but that’s not elegant. That lacks panache.’ He took out his phone. ‘North-west is the centre, right?’

‘That’s right, yeah. Are you… allowed to use your phone?’

‘Of course I am. Hey, Siri,’ he said, and the phone chimed. ‘Compass.’

He held it out, and they walked, taking whatever path was closest to centre, only lit by moonlight and the glow of the phone’s screen.

‘Why aren’t we using a torch?’

‘That makes us stand out to any predators more than it helps us find our way. The moon’s out, it’s light enough for monsters.’

Harry smiled a bit, at that. ‘If we meet something, are you going to shapeshift?’

‘Depends on the thing, but it seems to be what I do best. Oh _there’s_ an obstacle! _Finally_!’

They’d come upon an enormous patch of spiderwebs, which immediately gave Harry nerves; he still remembered Aragog, and his family.

‘Acromantulas eat humans,’ Harry felt he should point out. ‘I… I know you like spiders, professor, but I don’t think you can er, seduce one.’

‘I don’t have to seduce it,’ Professor Rose said, shifting just his eyes to have a tapetum lucidum, and the ability to see ultraviolet. The spider lit up in the darkness, crouched in the depths of the funnel and waiting.

Professor Rose spun his staff in his hands, and slammed it to the ground. Lightning struck the ground and started the web on fire.

‘Sorry!’ Professor Rose said, advancing slowly. ‘We’ve very dangerous, though, probably too much trouble to eat!’

He swept his staff in a wide arc, and flame burst forth from the end, burning through the strands of web. It smelled like burning fabric.

They went slowly, backing the spider up until the hedges to the right opened up beside them into a path, and Professor Rose took it. ‘Okay, sorry!’ he called out, backing up the path. ‘Sorry! I love you! You’re beautiful! Bye!’

They finally got around another corner, this time using the compass to point the right way to take, and Professor Rose stopped worrying about something following them.

‘Where did you learn to summon _lightning_?’ Harry asked.

‘Thedas,’ Professor Rose said, and didn’t elaborate. ‘Do you mind if I morph into something? My feet are going to start hurting soon.’

‘Sure.’

‘Cool. I think I’m gonna go snake, just because then we can still talk.’

‘I shouldn’t watch, should I?’

‘Oh, it’ll be _disgusting_ ,’ Professor Rose said, grinning and handing over his phone. Harry grinned back, and watched as Professor Rose’s limbs withered and shrank up into his body like noodles, while the rest of him just elongated, on and on, while he grew larger and larger, larger than any snake Harry had ever seen, larger than the snake he’d seen sitting beside Voldemort’s chair… almost as large as the basilisk, but more… ordinary-looking, with the same neon pattern as the snake on Professor Rose’s outfit. It reared up, flaring a cobra’s hood, and tasted the air, swaying a little as Professor Rose got used to the body.

‘Can you understand me?’ Harry asked, knowing he was speaking Parseltongue.

‘Yes,’ said the snake, who didn’t sound like Professor Rose at all, which was startling. But why would it sound like him? Snakes never sounded like humans. ‘That’s strange,’ he said again, but moved forward, and Harry walked beside him. They had just turned a corner when they heard Cedric cry out at someone.

‘What are you doing? What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’

And then Krum’s voice.

‘ _Crucio!’_

Harry sprinted, glad he was wearing sneakers, and Professor Rose paced him, and a hedge got in the way but Professor Rose reared up and slammed into it, and the hedge gave way at a natural split in the bushes. They were through, and Harry looked right to see Cedric on the ground, Krum standing over him. Harry pointed his wand at Krum before the older boy turned.

‘ _Stupefy!’_

The spell hit Krum in the back and he crumpled forward, motionless in the grass. Harry ran over to Cedric, who was panting and shaking, and gave him a hand up.

‘Cedric! Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m—Harry? Is… is that you? There’s a snake...’

‘That’s Professor Rose, silly,’ Harry said, trying to be like the queens he’d watched only hours ago (was it only hours?). ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah,’ panted Cedric. ‘Yeah… I don’t believe it… he crept up behind me… I heard him, I turned round, and he had his wand on me...’ He said it as he was getting up, regarding Krum with new eyes, still shaking slightly.

Sebastian took the opportunity to shift back into his human form, makeup and all, and leaned on his staff.

‘I can’t believe this,’ Cedric said, ‘I thought he was all _right_ ,’ he went on, staring at Krum.

‘Maybe he is,’ Professor Rose said, coming up beside Harry. He was frowning. ‘Krum’s a kid. You can’t cast the Curciatus Curse if you’re that young….’

‘Can’t you?’ Cedric said. ‘He seemed pretty good at it.’

‘Yeah, but taken in context of all the weird sabotage that’s been happening...’ Rose went on, leaning on his staff. ‘If this was a Hogwarts student, wouldn’t we think it was weird, and suspect someone _else_ was contolling them?’

They stood there for a few minutes.

‘There’s _somebody_ wanting to ruin the game, here,’ Harry said, nodding slowly. ‘Mr Crouch was mad, in the Forbidden Forest, and attacked Krum there. Someone put my name in the Goblet, despite the fact that the Triwizard Tournament has never had four champions.’

‘Are you implying… someone cast Imperius on Krum?’ Cedric said. ‘My God,’ he went on, looking around, wand at the ready. ‘There’s a Death-Eater in the maze.’

‘Or outside it,’ Rose said, suspiciously. ‘Whoever attacked Crouch must be hiding in the forest. With everyone in the stands, who’s patrolling that perimiter? Nobody.’

‘But there _are_ teachers patrolling the maze,’ Cedric pointed out. ‘They’d catch a Death Eater, surely?’

‘You’d be surprised what adults don’t catch, honey.’ Professor Rose had his suspicions about everyone, but especially certain people. Harry wasn’t the only person who’d been dodging bullets all year; but Sebastian, unlike Harry, didn’t trust that anyone would do anything if he told them, so not even Dumbledore knew. There was a reason Sebastian kept reading up on things, kept his room locked with blood-magic, and had taken to sleeping in dragon form and getting his food directly from the kitchens.

‘Besides,’ Sebasitan went on, ‘The Imperius Curse means you don’t have to actually be physically present.’ He looked down at Krum. ‘Karkaroff was a Death-Eater, once. And he’s been mighty squirrely….’

They all looked down at Krum. Professor Rose knelt and turned him over onto his back. ‘Poor baby,’ he said, and got back to his feet, humming to himself a little before slamming the staff down. A beacon of red light shot up from his staff, and stayed where he’d ‘planted’ it.

‘C’mon, let’s go...’

When they got to a split in the path, a little way ahead, Cedric made to go the other direction.

‘Where are you going, honey?’ Sebastian said.

Cedric paused. ‘We’re… competing.’ But the look on Professor Rose’s face said he was having none of this.

‘We just witnessed at least one—if not _two—_ Unforgiveables, and you’re _still_ thinking about competition instead of safety? No, you stay here, with us. We’ll win as a team; and if the judges say boo about it I’ll show them what a queen _bitch_ looks like. Get over here.’

They walked along in somewhat awkward silence. ‘So,’ Cedric said, ‘er, is that… fake blood, Harry?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘And I’m Mary Death right now, that’s my drag name.’ He grinned. ‘Isn’t it cool?’

‘Yeah,’ Cedric said, politely. He wasn’t going to rain on a fourteen-year-old’s parade; Harry was holding himself differently, now; and if horror makeup and a skirt was what made him feel brave and calm, then Cedric wasn’t about to ruin that. ‘It’s really cool. Did you do it yourself?’

‘I did the fake blood and the lipstick,’ Harry said proudly.

-

After a blast-ended skrewt and a manticore, they found themselves at the centre of the maze, the triwizard cup in sight.

‘Right,’ Cedric said. ‘Together on three?’

Harry and Sebastian both nodded. ‘Good plan. One, two, three.’

The thing was, Cedric had _really_ meant ‘one-two-three-and then we take it’, whereas Harry and Sebastian had interpreted it to mean ‘one-two-and then we take it’.

They disappeared as soon as they touched the cup, leaving Cedric alone in the maze.

-

Harry felt his feet slam into the ground, and he let go of the cup, which fell to the ground, as Professor Rose had also let go of it to keep his balance. He held out a hand and Harry took it.

‘Hey, Siri,’ he said. In Harry’s pocket, the phone chirped. ‘Where am I?’

‘You are in Little Hangleton Cemetery, Little Hangleton, Yorkshire, England,’ came a rather haltingly-rapid, British male voice.

‘Someone’s coming,’ Harry said, with a sudden surety, and Sebastian immediately shifted his eyes to see (it took only a millisecond to change his eyes), and reacted faster than Harry, turning into a strangely small, wingless dragon, the size of a wolf, that was a dark and mottled grey that blended so well with the shadows he rather looked like one, himself. Harry took cue and started to get down behind a headstone… and then his scar exploded with pain, and he started to scream; his wand slipped from his fingers, he fell to the ground instead, helpless to the agony. His skull was splitting open, surely, bleeding for real….

Sebastian had every instinct screaming at him to visibly protect; but he also had his suspicions about who Harry’s reaction meant it was, and stayed put in the shadows. He was using octopus skin, so he shouldn’t get noticed; and ever since reading about dragonhide repelling magic, he’d felt safer in it. He watched the figure come closer, and moved slowly and carefully, sipping air. There was something living in that bundle, something precious, or the wizard dragging Harry toward a nearby headstone wouldn’t be so careful with it….

The new target was that bundle, and Sebastian settled down to wait, terrified and guilty. He should be helping Harry.

*I’m still here, I’m trying to figure out what’s going on, so I can help you without risking him killing you or me or both of us.* he said to Harry. But what could he do? He hated the idea of duelling, he didn’t react fast enough, didn’t have enough practise; and he only had one chance to use the element of surprise, and that was not a good thing to waste until you knew exactly what you were dealing with.

Harry struggled; the wizard backhanded him with a hand that had a finger missing, and Harry knew he had to signal who it was.

‘Wormtail!’ he said. But Wormtail wasn’t paying attention; Harry noted he seemed nervous, his hands were shaking, and he was checking that Harry was bound tightly enough. Then, he pulled a length of something from his robes and gagged Harry with it, simply stuffing it into his mouth. Harry tried to bite him, and nearly succeeded, glaring fiercely as he could—glaring as fiercely as _Mary Death_ could.

*That’s it, bitch, kill him with a Look.*

Harry took heart from that, and felt less scared, remembered that he was wearing war-paint. He growled, even as he saw Wormtail scurry away like the rat he had pretended to be, even as he saw the bundle stirring fretfully at the foot of the grave, near his feet. He wanted to know, in a horrified way, what was inside it.

A snake slithered in the grass, and Harry wondered if it would find Professor Rose. It didn’t seem to be paying attention, circling and circling, machine-like and unnatural for a snake….

Wormtail was hauling something heavy, from his wheezing, and Harry heard the slopping of liquid in a hollow metal—a cauldron? He lit the fire and the surface began to sparkle.

‘ _Hurry!’_ said the thing in the robes, in a high, thin voice.

‘It is… ready, master.’

‘ _Now….’_

Wormtail hurried over and unwarpped the thing, and Harry stared with revulsed fascination at what he saw. It was sort of like a baby demon, with red eyes and raw, burnt-looking skin of blackish reddish, and an eerily featureless face. Wormtail picked it up with reverence and disgust, then dropped it in the cauldron; and, at the same time, Harry felt the brush of a small animal on his neck. It might have been a mouse, or a lizard.

*Don’t shake me off, I’m a very tiny dragon right now, I’m hiding between you and the headstone. Do not take your eyes off that cauldron, whatever the hell is going on I have no idea how to interrupt it, but I’m going to work on freeing you very slowly. Do not let on that you can move. We get one chance to surprise them, and only one, and I want you to _run to the church_ the minute I tell you, got it? Do _not_ stay. Run to the church, go into my contacts and call Dumbledore, and tell him what’s going on. Then play a puzzle game on my phone.*

Harry felt the tiny presence moving up and down the headstone, even as Wormtail opened the ground beneath him to get a fine dust of bone, even as Harry wanted to shut his eyes before watching Wormtail cut off his own hand. He couldn’t look away, it was too important. Wormtail even announced, in that same weird chant, that he was going to take Harry’s blood, and Harry held as still as possible, knowing that the more still you were, the less it would hurt.

It still hurt.

*That maleficar rat bastard! I’m almost through, Harry…. Run to the church, then call Dumbledore. Do it… now!* Sebastian was glad that he’d programmed Harry’s fingerprint into the phone some months ago, before the First Task, when he knew he’d be leaving Harry in charge of his phone while he faced the dragon.

Harry bolted, ducking behind headstones and zig-zagging like a bludger was after him, knowing a moving target was harder to hit. No one was chasing him, no spells zinged over his head or shoulder; but he kept running, the church in his sights, and when the door didn’t give way he didn’t linger, running around the side of the building, putting it between himself and Wormtail, only stopping when he was in its shadow, trying to catch his breath quietly, getting out the phone and sliding his finger through the ring on the back, just in case he had to run again, and calling Dumbledore….

-

In the soft murmuring of the crowd was an incongruous sound, one that startled the wixen but only annoyed the muggles.

Someone’s mobile was going off.

Dumbledore answered it. ‘Hello?’

‘ _It’s Harry. I’m in Little Hangleton, Yorkshire. The cup was a portkey. We’re in trouble. Wormtail’s here. He took some blood.’_

Dumbledore was on his feet and exiting the stands, touching McGonagall and Snape on the shoulder as he passed them. They got up and wordlessly began to follow. ‘Of _your_ blood?’ he asked softly.

‘ _Yeah. He had… oh God, I think—I think he had Voldemort with him. Professor Rose is down there alone!’_

‘I need you to stay quiet. Stay quiet and keep moving. Can you get the cup to you?’

‘ _Not without attracting attention, it’s down there with them.’_

‘Then don’t. Keep to the shadows, on foot, head toward the village. I’m on my way.’ He put the phone on mute, but didn’t hang up.

‘Minerva, get Kingsley,’ he said to her, ‘Little Hangleton. Severus, a moment in my office.’

‘Headmaster, what is going on?’ Crouch demanded in a whisper.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t much of an answer to that, yet,’ Dumbledore said, brushing past him and heading for the castle. Sebastian could face a dragon, true, but could he hold off Death Eaters? As soon as he was out of earshot of anyone but shadows, he spoke—still soft and low—to Severus.

‘Pettigrew is in Little Hangleton. He has performed some manner of blood magic with Harry’s blood, and may have some form of Voldemort with him.’

‘I need more than that,’ Severus said, snappish but not truly angry. Like Karkaroff, he was terrified; but unlike Karkaroff, he wasn’t afraid of fear. He and fear were old friends.

Dumbledore unmuted the phone. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘can you tell me what else was done, other than blood? Spare no detail.’

-

Harry was darting through patches of moonlight, which seemed brighter by the second, and heading for the lights of the town. He found a Tesco and went inside, the lights almost blinding after the dark. The clerk didn’t really look twice at him, Harry was surprised, but grateful. He tried not to look nervous; it was easier, now that he was in a mundane place, behind walls and doors. He ducked toward the fridges, heading for the back, so the hum would mask his voice a bit, as he detailed what he’d seen.

‘Wormtail summoned some bone, he said it was from "the father", and then he cut off his hand, and then he took some of my blood, and then he dropped… some… _thing_ , into the cauldron.’

‘ _Where are you?’_

‘I’m in a Tesco, in the village.’

A woman ran into the Tesco; she looked that weird age that was younger than Harry thought of parents being, but much older than school age. She had a lot of makeup on, too, and looked dressed for a night out.

‘Harry!’ she said, and Harry startled, before he realised the clerk at the counter must also be named Harry. ‘Harry, come quick! The graveyard’s on fire!’

‘I’ve got customer, Vera.’

Vera wasn’t listening, her phone was out and she was grabbing his hand and yanking him out the door, leaving Harry alone. The area came alive with Appariation, and a tall black wizard and a witch with short spiky pink hair appeared, in purple and gold uniform robes that reminded Harry of police. He warily crept toward them.

‘Harry?’ said the tall, black wizard. He had an earring, and a low, slow voice that was very soothing. He lowered his wand, and held out his wand-hand, now empty. ‘My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt. This is Officer Tonks. We’re Aurors, Dumbledore sent us here to protect you.’

‘Wicked makeup,’ Tonks said, grinning.

‘Thanks,’ Harry said, taking Kingsleys hand.

-

When Harry ran, it wasn’t noticed at first, sice Wormtail was on the ground sobbing in agony, and the Thing-That-Might-Be-Voldemort was in the cauldron, busy resurrecting.

Sebastian wasn’t sure what to do, but he knew he needed to use the time he had to shift form. Decisions always made him panic, but strangely, decisions under pressure gave him clarity of mind.

He went full dragon, but not the bright and colourful thing he’d been before—no, this time he was all in shades of black and grey and green, with dark eyes and every other thing evolved for stealth, and he hid, not risking his eyes luminescing in the firelight, relying only on listening.

Some time passed—not much, but not a little—and Sebastian heard, finally, a voice beyond Wormtail’s noises of pain.

‘ _Robe me.’_

Sebastian fought hard not to giggle. There was the sound of a footstep crunching the frost on the grass.

‘Wormtail.’

‘Y-yes, Master?’

‘I fail to see Harry Potter, Wormtail. Where is he?’

_Oh, very good Villaining, with the scary calm. Nine out of ten._

There was the sound of a spell, and a body slamming against stone. Wormtail cried out in pain.

‘Give me your arm,’ Voldemort said, angrily, then, ‘Your _other_ arm!’

‘Master… there may have been someone with him… I do not know….’

‘Then why did you not _kill the spare_ , Wormtail?’

*Because Harry Potter has powerful friends, honey.* Sebastian said, not giving in to the temptation to move. As he’d thought, a spell lashed out, not toward him, but into the darkness.

*Whoopsiedoodle, missed me!*

There was a great swishing of cloaks, and then the duelling raelly started; Aurors had arrived, but they’d clashed right into Death-Eaters arriving at the same time, and Sebastian knew it was his time to be seen; he lunged at the Dark Lord, biting down and concentrating like hell on the idea of _not letting him Disapparate._ There were screams and whizzing sounds, flashes of light that stung Sebastians over-sensitive eyes, and so he did not quite know, in the chaos, what was happening. He was overstimulated, and so single-mindedly, minkishly, held on for grim death. He tasted blood that tasted _wrong_ , but he held on, until the noise was, at last, finished. Well, other than the hissing and screaming from the man he was holding clamped in his teeth—which, also, stopped, as someone Stunned him.

‘Merlin’s _bollocks_ , I forgot how _nasty_ Travers’ hexes were....’

‘I can’t believe I’m saying this but thank you, Mr Malfoy, for that Shield Charm....’

‘You all right, Bill?’

‘ ‘m fine, Dad….’

‘Careful, don’t get close, I have no idea what’s got You-Know-Who but—’

‘I believe,’ Lucius said, quietly, ‘that is Sebastian Rose. He has a predeliction for unique forms—much like yourself, Agent Tonks.’

Sebastian was still reeling from all the sensory input—his eyes were closed tightly, and he was pressed to the ground, cold though it was. The words floating above him were discernable, but he felt far away, unable to concentrate well enough to use thought-speech. There were footsteps on the grass.

‘Please, I want to see him.’

Sebastian’s ears swivelled to focus on _that_ voice.

‘Professor...’ Harry knew Sebastian was probably really upset from all the noise and the light. He might even be having flashbacks or something; Harry approached, carefully, and slowly put out a hand. ‘Sabina,’ he said, using the drag name Professor Rose used. With all these adults around, it was hard for him to go on, but he thought maybe it would work. But he had to say it with confidence, or he shouldn’t try at all…. He looked into those closed eyes. ‘Bitch, come on. It’s… it’s cold as _balls_ out here.’ It wasn’t much, but Harry remembered that Professor Rose _did_ hate the cold.

He heard laughter, in his mind, and the dragon let go of Voldemort’s leg, which started bleeding again, sluggishly. He shifted back, makeup and all, and there was still blood dripping down his chin. It worked with his look.

‘Sickening,’ Harry said, grinning.

‘ _Eugh_ , in more ways than one, girlfriend.’ He looked down at Voldemort, who looked rather more humble now, just another stunned body in the frosted grass; and then up at Lucius.

‘Do you expect an apology?’ Lucius asked, raising a brow.

‘I never expect apologies, darling. Daddy!’ Professor Rose said, grinning and crossing the graves to hug Dumbledore, air-kissing both cheeks. ‘Do you have a mint? This isn’t karo syrup, darling.’

‘Of course, dear.’ Dumbledore reached in a pocket and produced one.

‘ _Ugh_ , you’re a _lifesaver.’_ Professor Rose popped it into his mouth.

‘Oh, he was acting on your orders,’ said one of the Aurors, with relief. Dumbledore regarded the young officer with benign amusement.

‘Sebastian does not follow my orders.’

Sebastian raised a brow at Dumbledore, who twinkled at him. ‘I believe,’ Dumbledore went on, ‘that Sebastian was acting as Harry’s second and protecting him from harm. No more and no less.’

‘Harry’s mine,’ Professor Rose said, drawing Harry near with an arm around his shoulder, ‘Slytherins protect their own, and don’t anyone forget it.’

Harry had never heard anyone interpret Slytherin house like _that_.

‘I would like to go home,’ Sebastian told Dumbledore. ‘It’s cold, I’m cold, and it’s way past Harry’s bedtime. Also, there’s a Death-Eater of some kind that put Krum under one of the Unforgiveables, and through him used another on Cedric, and possibly Fleur. I want this investigated and I want these children given sympathetic ears and psychological medical attention. Also,’ he added, ‘I’m going to get a lawyer and take the _entire government_ to court over this Triwizard Tournament for Child Abuse, Animal Abuse, and Harassing Endangered Species.’

‘As is your right as a citizen,’ Dumbledore said calmly. ‘Madame Maxime has helpfully lent me the Beauxbatons carriage, if you and Harry might come along with me back to Hogwarts.’

-

The carriage was as luxurious on the inside as it looked on the outside, and, to Harry’s surprise, looked exactly like a normal carriage inside, nothing bigger or multi-roomed, just plush bench seats of pale blue velvet, and ivory satin lining the walls, and blue velvet curtains. Squashy feather cushions were scattered on the seats, and Harry found himself feeling very tired, indeed, as he sank into the cushions. Professor Rose gently put an arm around his shoulders.

‘What will happen to Voldemort?’ Harry asked Dumbledore, once the carriage door closed and the carriage began to move.

‘He’ll be taken to a holding cell, and treated like any other criminal,’ Dumbledore said. ‘And taken to trial, eventually.’

‘And then what?’ Harry said, starting to get angry. ‘Thrown into Azkaban where all his followers are, so they can break out? The state of prisons in our world is _atrocious_ , Headmaster.’

Dumbledore had heard those words before, or some very like them; but he didn’t glance at Sebastian. An American would know, of course, to be suspicious of prisons. ‘You’re right, of course; and I believe you are not the only person to think so. Many people will be demanding his execution, I’m afraid.’

‘Because _that_ solves everything,’ Professor Rose said, with disgust.

‘You don’t want him dead?’ Harry was surprised, but curious. ‘Why?’

‘Because Voldemort’s the second dark lord in the last hundred years, and rose on the heels of the last one. Because the death penalty is only treating the symptom, not the cause. Because I want to know what caused him to get like that, and how to prevent more people getting like that, because clearly it’s still happening, he has followers and there’s prejudiced legislation on the books. Because wherever there’s an extremist, you’ll find a society that is permissive of the _ideas,_ and at the same time, denies any responsibility. Because he’s a person, and people are capable of change, no matter what they’ve done in the past. Even murderers. Even abusers. Even rapists. Even people who have done dark magic. _Everyone_ can learn better. Everyone is just doing their best with what they have—with what education they have, with what resources. We’re all doing our best and we need to remember not everyone has the same tools to work with to achieve "best".’ He leaned back. ‘And I learned _that_ from my awful ex, so that just proves even people who do hurtful things can still speak the truth.’

‘So you… forgive him?’

‘He hasn’t personally done anything to me that I need to forgive, yet. I understand he’s harmed others, but forgiveness is a very personal interaction, and if I learned anything from being emotionally abused, it’s that other people’s emotions are _not_ my business. If other people don’t want to forgive him, that’s their decision. But if I decide not to just for their sake? That’s not my place to do. Get it?’

Harry thought about this for a bit.

‘Sometimes I forget you’re wearing a mask,’ Dumbledore said in a strange tone, gravely serious but… something else beneath, something Harry couldn’t figure out. ‘Then you take it off.’


	9. Chapter 9

Dumbledore had actually argued—pleasantly, but it was still arguing—with Professor Rose, and Professor Rose had finally put his foot down.

‘I’m sorry I have to say this in front of you, Harry, but—Albus, you do _not_ get to lecture me on safety when you left Harry in an abusive home. There is _never_ a justification for that.’ His tone was dangerous, but he was clearly making great effort to not shout. **_‘Ever.’_**

And Dumbledore had gone quiet for a long time, and looked away from Professor Rose, out the window of the carriage.

‘I’m taking him to a safe house. Nobody knows about it,’ Professor Rose said. He was glad for the Occlusion lessons he had gotten from Narcissa, in that moment he’d held Dumbledore’s gaze. Most important was knowing when a Legilimens was trying to break in, and when they had—Dumbledore hadn’t gotten in. Anger could be very useful in Occlumency, when properly focussed. The fact that Dumbledore had even _tried_ , however, made Rose feel betrayed.

The carriage stopped outside the Hogwarts gates, and Harry wasn’t sure what had changed between them, but he was worried, even as Professor Rose opened the carriage door, getting out.

‘Come on, Harry,’ he said.

Harry hesitated, looking at Dumbledore, not sure why he felt like he was choosing a side.

‘Go on, Harry,’ Dumbledore said. ‘It’s a good idea to keep you away from Hogwarts, just for a little while. Until the furore has died down a bit.’ He gave Harry a smile that twinkled a little. ‘It will keep Ms Skeeter out of your hair, won’t that be restful?’

Harry smiled, then, and got out of the carriage, feeling everything was going to be alright, after all. Professor Rose looked at Harry, and hugged him tight, kissing him on the forehead.

‘You did so good tonight, Harry,’ he said, ‘I’m so proud of you. Now,’ he said, ‘it’s _balls_ -cold, do you mind if I turn into a beast for the journey to the nearest muggle town, and from there we’ll drive?’

‘Drive?’ Harry said, feeling unexpectedly excited about that. Professor Rose was from California, though, and had told them all about how casual Americans—Californians especially—were about long drives. With how long Rose could drive, they could end up _anywhere_ in Britain, Harry thought; they might even end up in _France_! ‘We’re… are we taking a road trip?’ he asked, a little excitedly.

‘We are,’ Rose said, grinning. ‘Now look away, I gotta morph.’

Professor Rose always called it ‘morphing’ not ‘shapeshifting’; Harry liked that about him. It _was_ gross, though, the way he did it, all slow and gradual. When Harry had written Sirius about it, Sirius had said it was ‘weird’ and sounded ‘horrific’. Harry only looked away to be polite, really; he was sure he would think it was cool. When he looked back, Professor Rose was not a horse, like Harry had assumed he would be, but a large, strange thing that gleamed white in the moonlight. It had an owl’s face, but four legs and paws like a large cat, with owl wings, and a long tail. It was bigger than any cat on the face of the earth, big enough to ride. It looked like—other than the fact that they were never owls—a griffin.  

*I’m an owlcat! Neat, huh? Get on, my wings will keep you warm.*

As soon as Harry climbed on, Rose’s white fur and feathers turned to greys and blacks that blended better with the landscape, and he settled his wings around Harry—they were very soft—and started to move. It wasn’t like riding a horse, thankfully—it was smoother, more loping, and Harry leaned forward, until he was laying on his stomach, the wings holding him on quite securely. He didn’t quite fall asleep, but it was terrifically warm. He’d almost been afraid they were going to fly, but Rose didn’t seem interested in flying, running through Hogsmeade.

*I’m not happy with this war, Harry. I don’t mind telling you. I’m not happy at all. I don’t like the way anybody’s handling it, but I’m also aware that I’m an outsider. And boy, everyone is real happy to make sure I _know_ I’m an outsider, and don’t get a say in this.*

‘That’s stupid,’ Harry said, ‘I mean, isn’t it? You live here now; you have to live with it.’

*Yeah well, the thing about adults is that they don’t much care for simplicity, even when simplicity is best.*

‘Where are we going?’ Harry didn’t recognise where they were, now, but there was a sleek pink sports car, the kind Uncle Vernon always decried as “Ostentatious Eye-talian Nonsense” while badly coveting one. Harry had never seen a pink one. He slid off Professor Rose’s back, and Rose turned back into himself, catsuit and all, and opened the door _upward_ , revealing a pink interior that looked soft, not leather at all but something plush and velvety.

‘California, bitch, get in.’

Harry grinned, ‘Yes, _Ma’am_.’

Rose laughed, as Harry climbed in, and went around the other side.

‘Does it fly?’ Harry asked, as Rose started the engine.

‘Oh no, honey,’ Rose said, and got out onto the highway with a purr of electric motor, and then accelerating to exactly eighty-eight miles an hour, then pulled the gearshift on the console, the one that the automatic transmission didn’t need. ‘It Apparates.’

They were suddenly driving down a different highway, one with twelve lanes where everyone was on the wrong side of the road, with big green signs with white lettering mounted over the street, bright lights and palm trees everywhere, and everything looked so _new_.

They went to In-N-Out immediately, of course, and _Rose let him eat in the car_ , and then Rose _drove_. They drove down the coast, listening to music, or talking. They drove for an hour or so, before they passed a sign that actually said ‘Disneyland’ among the lists of names that were streets or cities. They pulled off and straight into a Disney-character-decorated parking structure.

‘Are we… are we _seriously_ going to Disneyland?’ Harry asked, in a hushed voice. They’d Apparated eight hours back in time, so it was still light out, and instead of cold, it was warm, even hot. Rose grinned, parking and getting out, snapping a photo of where they had parked, and looked down at him.

‘Yep, because you being gone means everyone’s gonna be looking for you at some no-name place. Who’s going to think you’re at the Happiest Place on Earth? And anyway,’ he said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder. ‘You deserve it.’ He offered his hand. ‘What say, Mary Death? Ready to go to Disneyland tomorrow?’

Harry grabbed Rose’s hand, even though strictly speaking he was too old for that kind of thing. ‘Absolutely.’

‘And no worrying about being the Chosen One. No worrying about being a grown up or whether this or that thing is babyish, promise?’

‘Promise!’

‘I know you’re probably too young to get this joke, but I’m gonna do a thing and your line is “I’m going to Disneyland” okay?’

Harry grinned. ‘Okay.’

Professor Rose put on a television voice, pretending to hold a microphone. ‘Harry Potter, you’ve just captured the Dark Lord Voldemort, what are you going to do next?’ He tilted the invisible microphone toward Harry, who, giggling, said,

‘I’m going to Disneyland!’


End file.
